Page 37 of Claws for Celebration (Hollow Oak Mates #3)

LUCIEN

T he grandfather clock in the corner of Moira's bookstore chimed ten times, each resonant note echoing through the quiet space like a countdown to something Lucien couldn't bear to name.

Tomorrow. The ritual. The possibility that everything he'd found with this remarkable woman could be ripped away by forces neither of them fully understood.

He sat in the worn leather armchair near the occult section, watching Moira move between the shelves with that fluid grace that had first caught his attention weeks ago.

She was organizing books that didn't need organizing, her fingers trailing along familiar spines as if drawing comfort from their presence.

The soft lamplight caught the auburn highlights in her dark hair, creating a halo effect that made his chest tighten with something dangerously close to worship.

"You're brooding," she said without turning around. "I can practically feel the storm clouds gathering over there."

His panther stirred restlessly beneath his skin, responding to the underlying tension in her voice despite her attempt at lightness. "Can you blame me?"

She turned then, leaning against the bookshelf with her arms crossed, and the sight of her nearly undid him.

She wore one of his flannel shirts over leggings, the fabric hanging loose on her smaller frame, and the domesticity of it hit him.

This could be their last night together like this.

Their last night of pretending that tomorrow wouldn't change everything.

"Come here," he said, his voice rougher than intended.

She padded over in her stocking feet, settling onto the arm of his chair with an ease that spoke of growing intimacy. Her hand found its way to his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands in a gesture that had become second nature to both of them.

"Talk to me," she murmured. "What's going through that complicated head of yours?"

He caught her hand, pressing it flat against his chest where his heart hammered against his ribs. "I keep thinking about all the things I should have said. All the time we might have wasted being careful with each other."

"Lucien." Her voice carried a warning, but he pressed on.

"No, let me say this." He shifted, pulling her down into his lap, needing her closer. "I know we agreed not to make this about fear, but I can't pretend I'm not terrified of losing you."

She cupped his face in her hands, thumbs tracing the sharp line of his cheekbones. "You're not going to lose me."

"You can't promise that." The words tasted bitter. "Tomorrow, when you're channeling that much power, when you're opening yourself up to energies that could tear you apart from the inside..." He stopped, jaw clenching as his panther snarled in protest at even voicing the possibility.

"Then we make tonight count," she said simply.

For a long moment, they just looked at each other.

The bookstore felt like a sanctuary around them, filled with the accumulated wisdom of centuries and the quiet magic that had drawn them together from the very beginning.

Here, surrounded by leather-bound volumes and the faint scent of sage and old paper, they had built something precious.

"I have something I need to ask you," Moira said suddenly, her voice taking on a careful quality that made every muscle in his body tense.

"I don't like the sound of that."

She took a shaky breath. "If something goes wrong tomorrow.

If the ritual doesn't work the way we hope, and I don't make it back.

.." She held up a hand when he started to protest. "I need you to promise me that you'll find happiness.

That you won't close yourself off from the possibility of love again. "

His panther roared its rejection so loudly that for a moment, he couldn't speak past the fury rising in his throat. When he finally found his voice, it came out as a low growl.

"No."

"Lucien—"

"No." He stood abruptly, setting her on her feet, and began pacing the narrow aisle between bookshelves. "You don't get to ask that of me. You don't get to sit there and plan out my life after you're gone like you're already dead."

"I'm trying to be practical?—"

"Practical?" He spun to face her, and she took a step back at whatever she saw in his expression. "There is nothing practical about asking me to replace you. There is nothing reasonable about expecting me to move on like you never mattered."

"That's not what I meant." Her voice was small, uncertain in a way that made his protective instincts surge.

He closed the distance between them in two strides, backing her against the bookshelf with careful intensity. His hands braced on either side of her head, caging her in without touching her, letting her feel the barely leashed power in his frame.

"Let me make something very clear," he said, his voice dropping to that dangerous register that made her breath hitch. "I didn't spend thirty-four years avoiding emotional entanglements just to stumble into something casual with you. What we have isn't replaceable. You aren't replaceable."

Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated with something that might have been fear or arousal or both. "I just want to know you'll be okay?—"

"I'll be okay when you come back to me." His thumb traced her lower lip, and she shivered. "Not before. So instead of asking me to plan for a future without you, how about you promise me you'll fight like hell to make sure that future never happens?"

"Lucien..." She was trembling now, and he gentled his touch, his hands sliding down to rest on her waist.

"Promise me," he said again, softer but no less intense. "Promise me you'll use every ounce of power, every trick you’ve been taught, every stubborn bone in your body to come back to me."

"I promise," she whispered, and the words seemed to settle something wild in his chest.

"Good." He leaned down until his forehead rested against hers. "Because I have something to remind you of that promise."

His hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt she wore, fingers finding the spot on her hip where his mark had bloomed a few nights ago. The skin was still tender, the scratch mark almost too perfect that branded her as his in the most primitive way possible.

She gasped at the contact, her body arching into his touch. "Lucien..."

"This is your anchor," he said, his thumb tracing the sensitive skin around the mark. "When you're lost in all that power tomorrow, when it feels like you might drift away from yourself, you remember this. You remember that you belong here, with me, in this world."

Her hands fisted in his shirt, pulling him closer. "I remember."

"Tell me what it means."

"It means I'm yours." Her voice was breathless, shaky with arousal and something deeper. "It means I have somewhere to come back to."

"That's right." He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, then her cheek, then the corner of her mouth. "Mine to protect. Mine to cherish. Mine to keep safe."

"And you're mine to come back to," she said, turning her face up to his.

"Always."

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle affirmation of the promises they'd made. But it deepened quickly, becoming something more desperate, more claiming. He poured everything he couldn't say into it—his fear, his love, his absolute refusal to consider a world without her in it.

When they broke apart, she rested her head against his chest. He could feel her heartbeat against his ribs, quick and unsteady but strong. Alive.

"Stay with me tonight," she said into the quiet. "Not just in the bookstore. Stay with me."

He understood what she was asking, what she was offering. Not just physical comfort, but the kind of intimacy that would make their bond even stronger. The kind that would give her one more reason to fight her way back to him.

"Wild wolves couldn't drag me away," he said, and meant every word.

Outside, the October wind rattled the windows, but inside the bookstore, surrounded by ancient wisdom and new love, they had everything they needed to face whatever tomorrow might bring.