Page 39

It’s like watching one of those dramatic mortal plays where everyone dies in the third act, but the director lies to the audience and calls it a love story. That’s Lucien and Luna. Brooding and brilliant and bleeding out slowly across a campus that somehow doesn’t recognize the divine tragedy taking place on its cobblestone paths.

I adjust my mustache—third one today, this one glued slightly off-center so I look vaguely European and entirely unhinged. There’s also a beard now. Full, glorious, and if I may say so myself, rugged as hell. I could scale a mountain in this getup. Deliver cryptic wisdom from a cave. Start a cult.

Elias gives me a look. The kind that says I regret every decision that’s led to standing next to you right now. But he still hands me a mirror to check the angle. Best friends are funny that way—equal parts accomplice and disappointed parent.

“They’re turning into the south garden,” I whisper, tugging my fake beard into place like it’s armor. “We need cover.”

“You are dressed like a Victorian lumberjack. I don’t think stealth is on the table,” Elias mutters, sipping from a thermos that I’m ninety percent sure just contains despair.

“It’s tea,” he lies when I ask.

“Sure it is.”

We creep along the wall, our whole not-even-close-to-incognito crew stumbling after Lucien and Luna like we’re auditioning for a supernatural reality show. Orin’s trailing behind us, unbothered and unreadable, the Paranormal Investigator badge still pinned to his chest like some ironic protest. Ambrose mutters curses under his breath every time a twig cracks under his boots. Riven doesn’t say a word. Just stares after them with the kind of dark focus that makes me wonder if he’s imagining Lucien’s corpse or their wedding toast.

“They look happy,” I say, because someone needs to break the silence and it may as well be me.

“They look like a fucking disaster waiting to happen,” Elias says flatly.

“They look like soulmates,” Orin adds, voice quiet, which weirdly makes everyone go silent for a beat.

Then I fake-sneeze to lighten the mood. “Sorry. The beard’s shedding.”

Lucien leans in closer to Luna as they walk, his hand brushing hers—barely a whisper of contact—and I have to physically slap a hand over my mouth to keep from screaming. It’s that intimate. That dangerous. Like he’s one inch from claiming her in a way none of us are ready for.

“They’re going to bond,” Caspian mutters, voice low and bitter.

“I give it two days,” I say.

“One,” Elias counters.

“Do we…stop it?” Riven asks.

Orin, without turning around, says, “You can’t stop gravity.”

“Well shit,” I mutter, patting Mr. Bean—who is peeking out from the sling across my chest like a confused spectator of this chaotic opera. “Guess we better make popcorn.”

Luna throws her head back, laughing at something Lucien said, and I catch the moment his expression softens like a storm folding into stillness. That’s it. The moment. The shift. The gods-damned point of no return.

And all I can do is stroke my beard and whisper, “We’re so screwed.”

We’re going to be found out. And it’s not going to be because of me—though yes, I’m dressed in a shaggy wool coat I may or may not have borrowed from Ambrose’s closet (don’t tell him, I think it’s cursed)—but because Orin won’t commit.

You’d think a centuries-old immortal philosopher would know the value of good camouflage, but no. He’s stalking along behind us like a grim reaper on holiday, hands clasped behind his back, spine straight, all dignity and solemn observance.

It’s fucking embarrassing.

“Could you at least hunch a little?” I whisper at him. “Maybe look like you’re in pain? Or mortal?”

Orin doesn’t even blink. His gaze tracks lazily to a fat bird pecking at seeds along the path—some wide-eyed, bloated little pigeon-looking bastard with a limp—and he smiles. Smiles. Like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s seen all day.

“I wish I had my binoculars,” he says, voice low and thoughtful, as if that sentence is normal. As if we didn’t just slather glue on our faces like it’s part of a life-or-death mission and sneak out of the house to trail Luna and Lucien like degenerates on a field trip.

“Okay. First of all. Don’t say that. Ever again. Binoculars?” I hiss, pulling a pre-glued mustache from my coat pocket. “You’re going to ruin this whole op with your ornithology kink, old man.”

He opens his mouth to say something else and I do the only logical thing—I slap the mustache across it. Right over that smug, softly parted mouth.

There’s a sound. A soft hnf of surprise. Then silence.

Elias wheezes somewhere behind me, stifling laughter into the sleeve of his hoodie. Riven shakes his head, muttering about how he regrets every decision that brought him to this moment. Caspian’s glaring at me like I’m personally offending all of his trauma. And Ambrose? He’s adjusting a pair of dollar store sunglasses I-brand-loaned him, with little palm trees on the sides. He’s into it. The fucker.

“,” Orin says, voice muffled behind the ‘stache, “this smells like…peach adhesive.”

“It’s organic,” I shrug. “Now act like you’re not royalty walking into a war tribunal.”

“We’re wearing wigs,” Elias deadpans. “There’s no winning here.”

“Exactly!” I spin around dramatically, arms wide, channeling full ringmaster energy. “It’s about the effort. If we’re going to stalk our emotionally constipated friend and the girl he’s definitely about to ruin or worship, we do it right.”

“Pretty sure stalking your soulmate while in dollar store disguises is a new low even for us,” Riven says. But he doesn’t stop walking. None of them do.

Which is how I know they’re all in.

The campus bends in front of us, the wide path lined with overgrown hedges and the heavy scent of damp stone and iron in the air. Somewhere up ahead, Luna’s laugh echoes—soft and bright and gods, it does something to me.

Elias slows at my side, and for once, his voice isn’t coated in sarcasm.

“She sounds happy.”

I nod, mustache fluttering slightly in the breeze. “Yeah.”

He glances sideways. “You think we’ll fuck it up?”

I grin, wide and unrepentant. “We always fuck it up.”

But this time? Maybe we’ll fuck it up together. And maybe, just maybe, she’ll love us for it anyway.

We’ve now entered Operation: Luna Recon Phase Two—which is just a fancy way of saying we’re crouched behind an ivy-covered wall with six grown men in varying levels of poorly applied mustaches and questionable moral alignment.

Riven’s in a floppy gardening hat. He looks like someone’s haunted grandmother who collects crystal skulls and gives unsolicited advice on fertility spells. Caspian has on a hoodie with the words I’m Not Caspian written in what appears to be permanent marker.

And Orin—oh, ancient, judgmental Orin—is still wearing the mustache I assaulted him with earlier, now crooked over his lip like it’s lost the will to live. He hasn’t said a word since. He’s either plotting my death or entering his villain arc.

Elias is chewing the edge of the wig I gave him and pretending he’s not invested, which is a lie, because every time Luna laughs—every single time—his neck jerks toward her like he’s a wolf scenting blood in the snow.

And me? I’m pressed flat to the grass like a military sniper, holding up a pair of opera glasses I absolutely did not steal from Lucien’s study and muttering live commentary like I’m narrating a nature documentary.

“Subject has brushed Lucien’s arm. No reaction. Repeat: no outward affection detected. However… Lucien is smiling.”

“That’s not a smile,” Riven says behind me. “That’s a facial twitch. He’s fighting a sneeze.”

“No one smiles like that over pollen,” I hiss. “That’s a man in love.”

Ambrose’s jaw ticks. “Lucien doesn’t fall in love.”

“Lucien also doesn’t go on walks,” Elias mutters. “I thought he got nosebleeds if he stepped outside before noon.”

“They’re bonding,” I say darkly, drawing it out like it’s a death sentence. “Which means we need to escalate.”

“No,” Orin says flatly from behind me, voice dry and unamused. “You don’t even know what escalation means.”

“I do!” I whisper-yell. “It means we go deeper. Closer. More immersive.”

“I’m not wearing a second mustache,” Orin replies.

“Fine.” I reach into my coat pocket and pull out a prop I’ve been dying to use.

A pair of latex elf ears.

“Absolutely not,” Riven says instantly.

“They’re authentic,” I argue, holding them up. “They’re vintage. Enchanted. Elven-chic.”

“Are we blending in or auditioning for a traveling fae circus?” Caspian asks, deadpan.

Before I can answer, Luna stops. Mid-step. Her head tilts, brow furrowing, and her eyes scan the hedge wall.

She knows.

I flatten. Elias drops like he’s been shot. Orin just sighs and steps behind a tree with the dignified air of a man who regrets every one of his thousands of years.

“She knows,” Ambrose growls, already reaching for the dagger strapped to his thigh like that’s going to help us in a covert stakeout.

I lift my head just enough to see Luna lean in and whisper something to Lucien, who—that bastard—glances directly toward our hiding spot and smirks.

Smirks.

“Oh, it’s on,” I whisper. “He knows we’re watching and he likes it.”

“This is spiraling,” Elias says from the dirt. “This is absolutely spiraling.”

But none of us move. Not a single one. Because she's still walking with him. Because she hasn’t come back. Because every step she takes with him is another nail in the coffin of my composure. And because love—real love—isn’t patient. It’s obsessive. It's desperate. It wears fake mustaches and elf ears and hides in bushes if it means getting three seconds closer to the girl you’d burn the world for.

Even if she’s laughing with someone else.

Even if it’s Lucien.

I motion for everyone to move in closer. Tactical formation. Stealthy. Professional. You’d think we were hunting a rare creature, not stalking our best friend and the immortal tyrant she’s maybe-laughing-with-too-much.

“Move in on my signal,” I whisper. “And for the love of all that’s unholy, don’t draw attention to—”

Crunch.

We all freeze. Every single one of us turns to look at the ancient, wise, terrifying philosopher currently standing on what appears to be a full bag of kettle-cooked chips.

Orin lifts his foot slowly.

The crinkle echoes like thunder through the courtyard.

Ambrose stares. Caspian exhales through his nose like he’s given up on the idea of consequences. Elias sinks to his knees and mumbles something that sounds like “We’re going to die here. We’re going to die stupid.”

Orin stares down at the flattened bag beneath his boot like it personally betrayed him.

“They were rosemary,” he says, solemnly.

“Orin,” I hiss, dragging him back behind the hedge, “why—why would you step on chips?”

“I didn’t see them.”

“They’re bright green and shiny, man.”

“They were obscured by your ridiculous beard trimmings.”

“You could have worn the elf ears like I asked.”

“I am not wearing elf ears.”

We’re now whisper-fighting in the bushes, the mustache glue on my lip itching like divine punishment, and Luna and Lucien are staring right at us. I know it. I can feel her gaze slicing through the shrubbery like a curse I’d gladly die under.

Lucien’s mouth twitches again. Smug bastard.

“We’re compromised,” Elias says flatly.

“No, no, no,” I say, slapping wigs into their hands, shoving the glitter sunglasses over Ambrose’s eyes. “We just need to adapt.”

“You’re bleeding chaos,” Riven mutters.

“And you’re still wearing the grandma hat,” I snap back. “So unless you want Lucien triumphing with his morally ambiguous cheekbones, we’re staying in formation.”

And that’s when Orin clears his throat.

Loudly.

Deliberately.

I whip my head around, and the old bastard—the man who speaks like fate itself has kissed his mouth—waves. He waves at Luna. With a smile. A smile, like this is a tea party and not a full-blown covert tailing op.

Lucien blinks.

Luna stops walking.

And the rest of us are now absolutely, cosmically fucked.

“Why,” Elias says slowly, his voice hoarse with disbelief, “why did he wave?”

“He panicked,” Caspian offers.

“I did not,” Orin says, brushing nonexistent dirt off his coat. “I simply acknowledged her presence. She saw us, . She was always going to see us.”

“You waved like you were her grandfather at a school play,” I whisper-scream.

Luna is walking toward us now. Lucien’s hands are behind his back like he’s trying not to laugh. He looks pleased. Gods, he’s preening.

I shove the opera glasses into Riven’s arms and prepare for death.

But Luna’s smiling.

Smiling like we’re all idiots, which—fair.

And when she reaches us, with her arms crossed and a look that could melt paint off the walls, she says only, “You all look like a cult of discount magicians.”

I rip off my beard. “Luna, I can explain.”

She holds up a hand. “Don’t.”

“I was worried for your safety.”

“You were wearing elf ears, .”

“Because I care.”

She sighs, and when she walks back toward Lucien, I look at the others.

“We’re going to need a better plan.”

“We’re going to need a therapist,” Elias says.

Orin, still smug in his betrayal, tucks his hands behind his back and hums a hymn so old it’s not even in the mortal tongue anymore. And somehow, even though we’ve been absolutely caught, even though she laughed at us, I grin.

Because she smiled. And that’s always been enough.

I wait until Luna turns her head toward a flower, or a bird, or whatever wholesome distraction is currently stealing her attention from the very obvious disaster parade happening in the shrubbery.

Lucien’s gaze shifts just slightly—just enough that I know he knows I’m still here.

And I’m not about to walk away. Not without answers.

I crouch low, flatten myself like a predator in tall grass. Elias mutters something about me “going full raccoon mode,” but I wave him off with the seriousness of a man about to breach international diplomacy.

Because this requires tact.

And silence.

And... a visual language.

I raise my hands.

And begin to sign.

Sort of.

I make a stabbing motion. Very obvious. Very dramatic. I even squint for emphasis. Then I point to Lucien’s ass. Then I wag my finger. A no-no wag. Real authoritative. Real concerned. Lucien stares at me like I’ve grown a second head and offered to suck the marrow out of his kneecaps.

I try again. Slower. Stab. Point. Ass. Wag.

He blinks.

Then—then—the bastard smiles. Not a real smile. A Lucien smile. The kind that’s all mouth, no teeth. The kind that says I know exactly what you're trying to ask, and I'm not going to help you.

I try a new strategy. A full-body pantomime of her slicing her hand, adding a dramatic gasp, and then pointing back to him, and then to the sky. I don’t even know what that last part was, but it felt necessary.

Elias coughs behind me. “You just asked him if he plans to knife-fuck God.”

“I did not,” I whisper.

“You definitely did. He’s probably going to kill us now.”

Lucien reaches into his back pocket and slowly—slowly—lifts the knife into view. Doesn’t wield it. Just… lets the handle glint in the sun. Like a casual threat. He tilts his head. Then slips it back into his pocket, expression unchanged. No wink. No nod.

Just a look that says yes.

I spin back toward the group. “He’s going to murder someone.”

Caspian, seated on the grass beside Ambrose like he’s halfway to giving up on all of us, lifts a brow. “Are we surprised?”

“No,” Riven says flatly.

“I am,” I say. “I thought we were building a nice dynamic. Like, he’s the reluctant war general, and I’m the mischievous bard who thaws his icy soul with inappropriate shoulder rubs.”

“You’ve touched his shoulder?” Elias asks.

“Metaphorically.”

“Still. Don’t.”

Ambrose watches Luna as she laughs—too distant to hear us, but close enough I know she’ll sense it if this spirals out.

“Maybe it’s a butter knife,” I try.

“It’s not.”

“Could be decorative.”

“It’s Lucien.”

“Exactly! Maybe it’s a fashion accessory. Maybe he’s reinventing himself. You know, casual stabs for casual walks. Very avant-garde.”

I’m spiraling. I know it. But my gut—my glorious, chaotic, lust-addled gut—is telling me Lucien is not fine.

And he will do something reckless.

Again.

I stand. “We’re going in.”

“, no—”

I don’t wait. I march forward. Mustache crooked, beard askew, courage wildly misplaced. Lucien watches me approach with the disinterested stare of a vampire politely deciding which artery he’ll feast on first. I stop just short of them. Luna turns to me slowly, eyebrows lifting like she knows exactly what I’m about to say.

“Nice day for a stab,” I tell Lucien casually. “You packing for a picnic or a ritual sacrifice?”

Lucien doesn’t blink. “Would you like to find out?”

Luna sighs. “—”

“Just trying to protect the sanctity of your blood, love.”

Lucien’s mouth quirks.

I reach into my jacket and pull out a banana. Offer it solemnly.

“Trade?”

The bastard takes it. Which is how I know something is very, very wrong. He peels the banana slow, like he’s undressing a lover. A fruit-based strip tease that offends me to my very core. He meets my gaze with all the practiced cruelty of a man who has never lost a staring contest in his life, and takes a bite. Chews. Doesn’t blink.

I squint at him. Hard.

He takes another bite. Still no blink. Still that serene, sadistic calm, like this moment is playing out exactly how he hoped it would when he decided to carry a knife around and emotionally scar the rest of us by flirting with Luna like it's his new hobby.

And okay, maybe I deserve that scar. But still. I have questions. Urgent, spicy, morally concerning questions—and I can't ask a single one because Luna’s standing right here, all soft and sweet, totally unaware that her maybe-lover, maybe-stalker is currently having a telepathic banana battle with her very bonded Sin.

I lean slightly toward him, eyes narrowed, hands folded like a man about to propose violence in the most polite way possible. He leans back, just a fraction. Another bite. That crunch is so goddamn smug.

“Lucien,” I murmur under my breath, careful not to let Luna hear me, “do you really wanna do this?”

He tilts his head like a cat. No words. Just the kind of expression that says I’ve burned down empires for less, . Try me.

Elias bumps my shoulder from behind, whispering, “You're losing.”

“I’m not losing. I’m luring him into a false sense of banana-based superiority.”

Lucien blinks—once, deliberate. A flicker of victory stirs in my chest… until he takes another bite and then, mid-chew, lifts one hand and flips me off behind the banana like it’s an art installation.

“I fucking hate him,” I mutter.

“I think he loves you,” Elias whispers back.

“Stop romanticizing my villain origin story.”

Luna shifts beside Lucien, stepping forward to admire some delicate row of blooms that look like they were curated by the gods specifically to distract her from the chaos bubbling in the male species two feet away. She says something to Lucien—something soft I don’t catch—but it makes the corner of his mouth tick, and he tosses the banana peel over his shoulder like we’re not at our fucking Academy and that isn't my flowerbed.

Ambrose appears at my side. “He littered,” he says darkly.

“I know,” I hiss. “He also glared while littering.”

“I can fix it,” he offers, already pulling out matches.

“No fire!” I shove his hand down.

Orin approaches then, slow and unhurried, holding a very suspicious book upside down and wearing sunglasses with one arm snapped off.

“We are very inconspicuous,” he says to no one.

“You betrayed us earlier,” I snap.

Elias elbows me and nods toward Luna. “She’s walking this way.”

Fuck. I panic. I forget the plan. The plan was to stalk discreetly, not stand here like a mustache mafia and argue about fruit and allergies.

I rip the fake mustache off my lip, toss it at Orin, and scramble to look natural.

Which, for me, means I blurt out, “Luna, love of my many lives and one very overworked heart, you look divine today. Is that a new smile? It suits you. Should be illegal, honestly.”

She blinks at me. “. You have glue stuck to your mouth.”

“It’s called charm residue.”

Lucien walks right past me then, banana peel gone, and the knife still glinting in his pocket like a damn punctuation mark. He doesn’t speak. His entire existence is one long sarcastic ellipsis.

I glare at his back. Then look at Luna.

“Do you really trust that man?”

She narrows her eyes at me. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

Fair.

I grab Elias’s wrist and yank us both back toward the hedges.

“I’m not done with you, Banana Satan,” I mutter under my breath. “War has only just begun.”