Page 5

Lucien is already seated when I reach the far end of the tavern. He’s claimed a booth beneath the cracked stained-glass window, the one that bleeds violet light over the table in fractured patterns. He’s nursing a cup of something that smells sharp and herbal, untouched despite the rising steam.

He doesn’t look up as I approach. That alone tells me everything.

I fold into the opposite bench, my movements deliberate. Unhurried. I set my hands on the table, one over the other, and allow the noise of the tavern to wash past us—laughter from Silas, the scrape of Elias’s voice trying too hard to sound effortless, the low thrum of Riven’s presence coiled near Luna’s side like a blade waiting to be drawn.

Lucien finally speaks, voice quiet, clipped. “You’re serious.”

I don’t pretend not to know what he means.

“I’ve never been otherwise,” I answer.

He lifts his gaze slowly. His eyes are tired—eternally so. We’ve seen too many endings, and not enough beginnings.

“Courting her?” he asks, voice flat. “Now?”

My fingers trace the rim of the mug in front of me. I don’t drink from it. I rarely do.

“She is no longer unformed,” I say. “The Hollow tried to break her. Instead, she’s become something more. She’s ready.”

Lucien’s mouth tightens. “You’re speaking like she’s a rite. A sequence.”

“No,” I murmur. “I’m speaking like she’s a truth.”

He leans back, jaw tight, arms folding slowly across his chest. “You’ve watched her. Observed her. Never interfered. You stood at the edge like you always do, as if she were some unfolding theorem you could admire without consequence.”

“She was not ready,” I say again, and this time, my voice is firmer. “Had I made a move before now, she would’ve mistaken curiosity for consent. Fascination for want. I gave her the space to become herself without shaping her into something palatable.”

Lucien exhales, slow and harsh. “And now?”

I glance toward her. She’s laughing, one hand around a cracked mug, her cheeks still flushed from whatever Elias just whispered in her ear. Riven glares like he wants to kill something. Silas twirls a coin between his fingers, casting a spell under his breath that makes the shadows dance. And Luna—Luna smiles like she doesn’t know that gods bend around her.

“She knows who she is,” I say softly.

I feel the weight of his disapproval like gravity pressing into the edges of my ribs.

“You think I will ruin her,” I say.

He scoffs under his breath. “No. I think you’ll complicate her. She’s already holding too many threads—Silas, Elias, Riven, Ambrose, Caspian. And now you want to add your particular breed of madness to the storm?”

My hands still on the table.

“I do not love like they do,” I admit. “But I have loved her longer.”

Lucien’s jaw tightens. He looks away, out the broken window, at the crooked trees swaying beneath a sky that doesn’t know how to stop bleeding dusk.

“And if she says no?” he asks.

I do not flinch.

“Then she says no.”

Lucien turns back to me, blue eyes sharp and ancient. “But you don’t believe she will.”

“No,” I say quietly. “Because she’s already answering. Just not in words.”

He leans forward, knuckles tapping the table once. “Just don’t make her one of your studies, . She’s not a theory to prove. She’s not a symbol. She’s—”

“She’s everything,” I interrupt, voice low and even. “And I have never treated her as anything less.”

Lucien studies me for a long moment. Then he nods—slow, reluctant, but it’s there.

I rise without another word. Because she’s turning toward me now, eyes scanning the tavern like she can feel me watching. And it’s time she learned how ancient love can be.

I have mastered the art of withholding. It is not difficult, not when you’ve lived as long as I have. Time becomes a blade you learn to hold by the edge—sharp, precise, something you can carry without bleeding if you’re careful enough.

For months, I’ve held it.

My want.

My need.

Tucked behind every conversation, every glance, every carefully measured moment when her gaze drifted toward me and slid off without catching. Because that’s what she needed from me.

Constancy.

A quiet harbor while the rest of them burned around her.

I let them burn. I let myself sit outside the blaze, the patient one, the one who never reached. She needed stability, and I could give her that. I could offer her the part of myself that knew how to stay still when everything else fell apart.

But I have teeth, too.

And tonight, they ache.

They all move out of the way without saying a word, and I appreciate the effort, even if their pretending is as subtle as a blade to the throat. It’s the closest they know how to come to respect—for me, for her, for whatever this is becoming between us.

The tavern hums around us, all noise and flickering lamplight, but the only thing I register is the slight shift of Luna’s body as she straightens, as if bracing herself. As if she knows something is about to happen and isn’t sure whether to run from it or lean into it.

I don’t speak immediately.

I let her breathe.

And when I finally do, my voice is low but not mysterious. Not deliberately theatrical. Just quiet enough to keep this between us.

"I see you’ve been made aware," I murmur, glancing at her sidelong, "that I am willing to bond with you."

Her spine goes rigid, but she doesn’t look away. She swallows once, then exhales like she’s trying to steady herself.

"It wasn’t hard to figure out," she replies, voice softer than she probably intends. "The flowers, the speeches, the phases Caspian explained to me like I was signing a blood pact."

A faint smile touches my mouth, not unkind. "It’s not quite that severe. Yet. Though I won’t deny it’s formal."

She bites her lower lip, eyes darting down toward the table between us before flicking back up to meet my gaze. "You’re really doing this."

It’s not a question, but I answer anyway.

"Yes."

Simple. Not layered. Not performative. Just the truth.

Her gaze searches mine, as if she’s trying to find the catch, the trap, the reason a man like me—who has always lingered quietly on the edges of her chaos, who never once made a move—would decide now to lay it at her feet.

"You’ve never said anything," she murmurs. "For months. You’ve just… been there."

I nod once, measured. "Because you needed me to be there."

My thumb traces the rim of the mug in front of me, a deliberate gesture, giving her space to breathe, to process. "You didn’t need me pursuing you when everything else in your life was on fire. You needed someone solid. Unmoving. So I stayed there, exactly where you needed me."

Her lips part, but I continue before she can interrupt.

"But things have changed," I say, voice quiet but certain. "You are not who you were months ago. You are stronger. Sharper. You know your own wants now. And I am done pretending that I do not want you."

Her breath slips out, unsteady but soft, and when she looks at me now, there’s no fear. Just confusion, yes, and something warmer under the surface that she doesn’t know how to name.

"I don’t know how to do this with you," she admits, voice quiet enough that no one else can hear.

My smile sharpens, but it isn’t cruel. "You don’t need to know how. I’m not asking you for anything tonight. I’m telling you that I’m here. That I’ve always been here."

Her gaze drops again, lashes sweeping down, and I see the flush creeping back into her cheeks, blooming high beneath her skin like a secret she doesn’t want to give away.

"Is this where you tell me the next phase?" she asks, voice lighter, almost teasing, but there’s a crack in it, a tremor she’s trying to hide.

I shake my head slowly, deliberately. "No. This is where I ask if you’d like to dance."

That makes her blink, startled enough to glance toward the others—who are deliberately, obnoxiously pretending they’re not listening, every single one of them failing.

Her gaze snaps back to me.

"Now?"

My mouth tips into something quieter. Almost soft.

"Now," I echo. "Or tomorrow. Or next week. Whenever you’re ready to stop pretending you’re not interested."

Her lips part again, but no protest comes out. Because she is. Interested. And we both know it.

She doesn’t hesitate. Not in the way that matters. There’s a beat—yes—a flicker of uncertainty, of hesitation born not from doubt, but from the weight of inevitability. And then she nods, slow, a faint curve pulling at her mouth, eyes already brighter than they were a moment ago.

“All right,” she says. Just that. Simple. Not breathless. Not wide-eyed. Just steady. Willing.

I rise without flourish and extend a hand, and when hers slips into mine, I feel it—that quick thrum beneath her skin, her pulse jumping in her wrist where my fingers curl, the flush that returns like she can’t quite keep it from showing. She follows me from the table, past the boys who pretend not to see us, their silence louder than anything they could say.

We don’t need music. The tavern is full of it—crooked notes from a half-sober fiddler in the corner, the murmur of voices, chairs scraping, laughter rolling like smoke over splintered floors.

I guide her just far enough from the crowd to claim a sliver of space near the open window, where the air is cooler and the scent of wild rosemary curls through the cracks. My hand settles lightly at the small of her back, the other clasping hers, and I wait until she looks up at me before I move.

“You dance?” she murmurs.

I let the corner of my mouth lift. “I adapt.”

We sway—slow, minimal steps. Just enough movement to feel the rhythm of each other, to let the energy stretch tight between our joined hands, between the way she tilts her chin up toward me but never all the way. Her fingers tighten just slightly in mine, and I know it’s not from nerves. It’s from want.

Not lust.

Want.

I wait for a full turn before I speak again. “There is something I want to be clear about.”

Her brows lift—not startled, just curious now. She’s beginning to expect directness from me. Good.

“I intend to bond with you,” I say, voice low and even. “But I have no interest in rushing intimacy before we reach that point.”

She blinks. “You mean—”

“I would prefer not to sleep with you,” I clarify gently. “Not until the bond is sealed.”

She blinks again. This time slower.

“You… don’t want to—”

“Oh, I want to,” I say easily, watching the blush rise in her cheeks like it’s blooming just for me. “Quite badly, if I’m honest. But I won’t.”

Her grip falters for half a breath, like her balance is suddenly a question. I pull her slightly closer—not enough to alarm, just enough to recenter her. To remind her she’s still here, still dancing.

“You’re serious,” she says finally.

“I am.” My thumb brushes along the side of her hand, slow. “This is not about denying myself. It’s about giving you something none of them have.”

She stares at me, and I feel her breath hitch between us, caught somewhere in her throat like she doesn’t know if she should laugh or kiss me.

“And what’s that?” she asks, the words slipping out quieter than before.

“Time,” I murmur. “Deliberate, undivided time. Intimacy is inevitable. But I don’t want to blur this with desire until you know what you mean to me when I’m not touching you.”

Her eyes stay on mine, wide and wondering, and I watch her chest rise as she exhales slowly.

“That’s… a lot,” she finally says, voice soft but not small. “No one’s ever told me something like that.”

I tilt my head slightly, studying the curve of her mouth, the hesitation in her eyes that isn’t doubt—it’s awe. Confusion. Hunger without the rush.

“I’m not anyone else,” I say, calm. “And I’m not going to pretend to be.”

She bites the corner of her lip, gaze dropping, and her next exhale shudders through her body like she wasn’t ready for how that would feel. But when her eyes meet mine again, there’s no wall between us anymore. Just fire. Just curiosity. Just her letting herself look.

“I don’t think I know how to be courted like this,” she admits quietly.

“I’m not expecting you to,” I say. “I’ll show you.”

And gods help me, I will.

The song shifts around us—something slower now, less raucous than the rest of the tavern noise. I don’t let go of her hand, not even when the tavern begins to blur around the edges, the weight of the room dissolving until it’s only her.

“So,” she says, voice soft but threaded with that sharpness she always carries, “what happens next, Professor Vale? Do I get quizzed on proper courtship etiquette? Am I supposed to curtsy?”

I lift a brow at that, the corner of my mouth pulling upward. “You’re welcome to curtsy if you’d like,” I murmur. “But I already know you’d fail any etiquette test. Spectacularly.”

She huffs, rolling her eyes like she’s trying not to laugh. “That’s rude.”

“It’s accurate.”

She narrows her eyes at me, but her smile tugs higher. “And what exactly do you expect from me in all of this? Should I swoon? Bat my lashes? Throw myself at your feet?”

I hold her gaze deliberately, letting the pause stretch until she shifts beneath it, playful on the outside but restless underneath.

“No,” I say quietly. “I expect nothing but what you’re already doing.”

Her brows pull together slightly. “Which is?”

“Letting me see you,” I answer, voice low and certain. “The real you. Not the version you weaponize. Not the girl who survived the Hollow. Not the Sin Binder they’ve all carved themselves around. Just you.”

Her breath catches faintly, and I feel it—how much she wants to dodge that, make it a joke. She doesn’t.

Instead, she swallows and murmurs, “That sounds terrifying.”

“It should be,” I reply. “I have no interest in anything that doesn’t terrify me.”

She laughs at that, shaking her head, eyes dropping to the floor between us like she’s trying to hide how much she’s smiling now.

I dip my head slightly, voice quieter when I speak again. “You’re not used to someone seeing you without reaching for you.”

Her gaze flicks back up to mine, sharp and curious.

“I’m not in a hurry,” I continue, fingers brushing hers deliberately now. “You don’t need to perform for me, Luna. You don’t need to win me.”

Her eyes soften, mouth parting, and her voice drops a little. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“About you?” I murmur. “Always.”

The heat blooms in her cheeks again, and gods, I would burn the world to see that look on her face every day.

She bites the inside of her cheek, then leans forward conspiratorially. “So, if you’re so sure, tell me something else.”

I arch a brow. “What would you like to know?”

Her eyes flick toward my mouth and back up, playful again now, sharper at the edges. “What’s the worst thing you’ve thought about me since you started this whole… formal courting thing?”

My smile sharpens, and I don’t hesitate. “That I should have done this sooner.”

Her breath stutters, and before she can recover, I lean in, voice pitched so low only she can hear.

“The second worst,” I murmur, “is that I want to kiss you every time you look at me like you’re trying to figure out how dangerous I am.”

Her lips part again, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

I straighten just slightly, giving her space, but not too much.

“And the third,” I add softly, “is that you’ve already figured it out.”

She exhales, a sound that’s almost a laugh, almost something heavier.

“That’s unfair,” she mutters, voice shaking a little. “You’re not supposed to say things like that.”

I tip my head toward her. “I told you, Luna. I’m not interested in pretending.”

Her fingers tighten in mine.