Silas
They give off bad vibes. Not the fun kind that says we might stab you, but we’ll make it sexy. No. The kind that reeks of too much power wrapped in too little consequence. That’s what happens when you let immortals build pedestals under their own feet and forget who carved the first stones. We voted them in. We propped them up. But that was back when we were free. Before the binds. Before the Hollow twisted its roots around our throats.
Now? The Council drips greed like perfume, layered thick enough to suffocate.
Keira’s the worst of them.
Not because she betrayed Ambrose—though, let’s be honest, the girl could’ve written a how-to manual on how to crack a sin in half and smile about it. But because she walks around like she earned him. Like her betrayal was some righteous strike of enlightenment instead of a fucking ego trip.
She’s dressed like she’s trying to seduce a god, all sharp edges and crimson silk, her smirk practiced and poisonous. And yeah, I could be subtle. I could play diplomatic like Lucien always hisses at me to be.
But that’s not who I am.
So I grin. Wide. Wicked. Lean against the wall like it’s the most comfortable place in the world, arms folded over my chest, one boot kicked out lazily. And I stare. Right at her.
I don’t blink. I don’t hide it.
I glow.
It’s the kind of glow that should worry her. Because underneath the charming curve of my mouth and the boyish sparkle in my eye, I’m vibrating with the urge to make her regret everything.
Beside me, Elias mirrors the stance, but not the expression. His glower is subtler—darker, carved from disdain. The kind that says I don’t need to light you on fire, but I’d enjoy watching someone else do it.
I love this man.
Keira falters.
Just for a heartbeat, her gaze catches mine and the corner of her mouth dips, betraying something that might be nerves—or guilt—or the sudden realization that the sins she tried to leash haven’t forgotten how to bite.
“She’s overcompensating,”
I mutter out of the side of my mouth to Elias, never looking away from her.
“Too much red. That’s the color of people who really want you to know they have power, but don’t.”
Elias hums.
“She’s the human equivalent of a ‘do not touch’ sign that makes me want to touch everything just to be petty.”
“I bet if we licked her shoes, she’d moan.”
He chokes, wheezing once, and I feel him turn his face just enough to glare at me through silver lashes. “.”
“What?”
I whisper innocently.
“I’m just saying. She probably has a ‘step on me’ complex.”
“You have a death complex.”
“Luna likes it.”
That earns me a smack to the shoulder, but it’s light. Familiar. Like always, we fall into sync. Him with his knives of sarcasm, me with my chaos-dipped spoon, stirring every pot in reach.
Keira’s gaze shifts again. Not just to me. To Luna.
And that’s when I stop smiling.
Because if she so much as thinks about her—
Luna is tucked just behind us, shielded by our bodies but not hidden. She doesn’t need us to protect her, but we do it anyway. Instinct. Bond. Love. Rage. All of it tangled into something that doesn’t have a name yet, but would look like fire if it did.
Keira narrows her eyes.
I tilt my head. Just slightly. And let my grin return—slow, sharp, full of promises she doesn’t want cashed.
“I hope she tries something,”
I murmur, loud enough for Luna to hear.
“I’d love an excuse to use her as a mop.”
Elias sighs.
“Please don’t lick the council member, .”
“No promises.”
The doors creak as someone else enters, and the moment splinters into new tension. But I stay in place, pulse steady, grin intact.
Because there are sins written into this world that no council can erase.
And one day soon, we’re going to remind them who we are.
“It’s been handled,”
Riven says, voice like scorched iron, sharp and final.
He’s flanked by Ambrose and Lorian, the three of them a triad of menace and reluctant diplomacy. Whatever tension simmered between them—whatever weapons might’ve been metaphorically or literally drawn—has settled into something taut and simmering beneath the surface.
Ambrose’s coat is half-unbuttoned, like he didn’t bother to fix it after whatever conversation happened in that godforsaken hall. Lorian looks too pleased, the kind of pleased that says compromise came at a cost, and Riven’s jaw is clenched tight enough I can hear his teeth grinding from here.
“So, what? We won the civil war and now we get to have dinner about it?”
I arch a brow, crossing my arms.
“Do I need to practice my curtsy?”
“You’ll be joining the public gathering,”
Riven replies, dry.
“A play. Then a meal after. The Council wants us seen.”
Elias groans behind me.
“Ugh. Theater. My only weakness. Next to effort. And pants.”
But me? I light up.
“Wait, wait, wait—hold on.”
I straighten, finger raised like a scholar with a point to prove.
“Are you telling me…we get to dress up? Like, full dark academia drama? Velvet and tailored waistcoats and those boots that make my ass look righteous?”
Riven doesn’t even blink. “Yes.”
“Yes,”
I echo, with more enthusiasm than the moment probably calls for. I fist-pump.
“Finally. All this carnage and binding and trauma and I still haven’t gotten to wear my ceremonial eyeliner.”
Luna snorts beside me, and I feel her warmth press against my arm, just enough to make the bond between us hum to life, low and sweet under my skin. Her eyes glint when she glances up at me, amusement bright in the blue-gold storm of her gaze.
“Please tell me you’re going to wear your hair down with it,”
she says, voice syrupy with tease.
“Oh, darling,”
I purr, throwing an arm around her shoulders and dragging her close.
“I was born for scandalous cuffs and brooding lighting. I am the drama.”
Elias mutters.
“You are a drama,”
but I ignore him because Luna’s laughing now, really laughing, and that’s a sound I’d break ten of Lorian’s precious rules to hear.
Behind her amusement, though, I can feel it—under the surface of the bond. That twist of unease. She’s trying to play it off, but I know her too well. She doesn’t trust the sudden public invitation. Neither do I.
“This play…”
I narrow my gaze at Riven.
“Is it a play or a statement?”
“Both,”
Ambrose answers, tone as smooth as it is lethal.
“They want to reintroduce us to the world. Not as prisoners. As monarchs.”
“Is this when we bow?”
Elias deadpans.
“Because I’m not bending a single knee unless it’s on Luna’s mattress.”
“Down, boy,”
I whisper, pinching his side, and he yelps, swatting at me like a cat.
But the mood sobers fast.
Because Ambrose turns, finally looking at Luna. His gaze doesn’t linger—it’s brief, assessing, calculating. But it lands. And she meets it without flinching.
“They’ll be watching her the most,”
he says.
“They’ll want to see how she walks. How she stands. If she flinches. If we flinch for her.”
“We don’t,”
I say, quietly now.
“We never have.”
Ambrose nods once.
“Then make them remember it.”
The room pulses with something heavier than magic. The kind of weight that settles in the chest, not on the shoulders. I glance at Luna again, and she’s already standing taller.
I press a hand to my chest.
“Time to find my good eyeliner.”
“,”
Riven warns.
But Luna touches my hand, fingers lacing with mine as she pulls me toward the door.
“Let him have this,”
she says.
“He’s about to outshine the entire Council.”
Damn right I am.
I’m mid-sentence about the sinful versatility of brocade lapels when we turn the corner, and Luna casts me a sidelong look that says she’s humoring me—and enjoying every minute of it.
“I’m just saying,”
I continue, voice full of mock-seriousness as we near her door.
“the world isn't ready for me in a black velvet coat with gold threading. There will be riots. Parades. Applause.”
“I don’t think that’s how riots work,”
she says dryly, but her mouth is tilted at the corners, like she’s fighting a smile and losing.
I let the silence stretch for half a beat as I reach for her door handle, then swing it open like a stage entrance.
“After you, your sinfully gorgeousness.”
She steps inside, rolling her eyes, and I follow her in, shutting the door behind us.
My hand lingers on the knob.
She doesn’t notice right away. She’s distracted, probably expecting me to flop on the bed and start monologuing about boot height again.
Instead, I clear my throat.
“So, here’s the thing…”
She turns toward me, one brow arched in suspicion. “.”
“If you tell a soul what you’re about to see,”
I say solemnly, stepping closer.
“I’ll be forced to do unspeakable things. Crimes, Luna. Fashion crimes.”
She blinks.
“What are you—?”
I press a finger to my lips before she can say another word. Her lips part slightly, but she obeys—because she always does when I look at her like this. A little chaos behind the eyes, a promise curled beneath the surface.
Then I reach behind the bookshelf in the corner—one I strategically never let her touch—and press it.
The button.
The hum is quiet at first. Mechanical, magical, ancient. A whir beneath the floorboards and a click in the stone.
The wall opposite the bed splits down the center with a soft hiss and peels back like a secret finally unfolding.
Behind it—my closet.
Not just a closet.
A walk-in cathedral of aesthetic sin.
Velvets in shades that would make royalty weep. Leather tailored like second skin. Boots lined like weapons. Racks and racks of black, wine, midnight blue. Gold accents. Gloves I’ll never wear. Coats I’ve forgotten I owned. Rows of accessories so dazzling they could start wars.
Luna steps forward like she’s entering a temple.
“,”
she breathes, stunned.
“What the hell.”
I step up beside her, chin lifted, voice smug.
“Darling, did you really think all my drama was stored in a drawer?”
She walks deeper into the closet, fingertips grazing a silver-threaded coat that cost me a favor from a demon tailor in the underground.
“You never moved out,”
she murmurs.
“Technically,”
I say, following her in.
“I just... stayed.”
She turns to look at me then. Her face is open in a way that makes my heart trip over itself. She sees me—all of me. The boy who needs to be seen, the one who needs her laughter like oxygen. Her gaze softens.
“You stayed for me.”
I lift a shoulder, aiming for nonchalance.
“You’re better with me around.”
She steps closer. One hand at my chest, over my heart. Her voice drops, quiet but steady.
“And I’m better with you here.”
My throat tightens. I cover it with a grin, sliding my arms around her waist.
“You’re not just saying that because I’m about to dress like a gothic prince and blow everyone else out of the water?”
“Oh, I’m definitely saying that,”
she teases, but then her hand curls behind my neck, and she kisses me.
Not needy. Not rushed.
Just… right.
I deepen it for a moment, then pull back and whisper against her lips.
“Now help me pick something slutty.”
She laughs, and I swear, I’d burn this whole world down just to hear that sound again. And sinks into the velvet chair like it’s a throne, one leg crossed over the other, arms draped across the armrests, and an expression on her face like she owns the world—and worse, like she owns me. Which, fine. She does. But she doesn’t have to look that smug about it.
“I feel like I should be paying admission,”
she says, eyeing the runway of carpet I’ve cleared between racks.
“Do I get wine service with this show?”
“You get something better,”
I say, flourishing the collar of my robe and dropping it dramatically to the floor.
She whistles low under her breath.
“You’re naked.”
“I was born to wear nothing but moonlight,”
I say with a wink.
“But I’m willing to make sacrifices for fashion.”
Her laugh is breathy, amused, and I can feel her watching me as I slip into the first look. A toga. Real, authentic, stolen-from-an-actual-Roman-legionnaire kind of toga.
Luna squints.
“You look like you’re about to give a lecture on aqueducts.”
“Excuse me,”
I say, affronted.
“This is history. I’m embodying centuries of empire and excess.”
“You’re embodying someone’s drunk uncle at a costume party.”
I sigh, dramatic as always, and yank the toga off before reaching for the next one. A velvet trench coat embroidered with silver suns, no shirt underneath, just layers of confidence and a whisper of chest hair.
Luna pretends to consider it.
“Closer. You’re getting there.”
“Next, I’ll wear just this necklace and my overwhelming sexual magnetism.”
“You’d still manage to trip over your own ego.”
The third outfit is worse—leather pants and a mesh shirt. She doesn’t even let me fully put it on.
“No.”
“I didn’t even—”
“No, .”
“Fine.”
I toss it over my shoulder.
“You don’t appreciate my vision.”
“Oh, I appreciate it,”
she says, smirking.
“But I also love you too much to let you be arrested for crimes against good taste.”
My chest stutters on that word—love—but I keep it buried beneath a smirk and a bad accent as I slide into the fourth outfit: a sleek black suit, tailored to filth, lapels sharp enough to wound, and a shirt just sheer enough to suggest a sin or two. No tie. I unbutton the collar and let my neck breathe.
Luna sits up straighter.
I turn slowly, letting her see every angle.
“Well?”
I ask, trying to sound casual even as my heart picks up.
She doesn’t answer right away. Her gaze trails down, then up again, her mouth parting slightly before she presses her lips together.
“That one.”
I raise a brow.
“Just like that?”
She nods once.
“That’s the one you wear when you want the whole room to look at you—and hate themselves for not being you.”
“Or for not being the one who gets to take me home?”
She meets my gaze, something darker flickering in her eyes.
“That too.”
There’s a beat where neither of us moves. The light shifts in the closet, catching on the black satin of my suit and the gleam in her eyes, and for a second it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. Just her, me, and the dangerous current always humming beneath our bond.
I walk toward her slowly, watching the way her eyes trace my movements, and when I reach her, I lean down, bracing my hands on either side of the velvet chair.
“Say it again,”
I murmur, my voice a breath against her cheek.
She tilts her head.
“Say what?”
“That you love me.”
Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t flinch.
“I love you.”
I grin and kiss her—quick, hungry, a reward and a curse all in one. Then I pull back and whisper.
“Now help me pick my boots. If I’m going to devastate this world, I need the right heels.”
I kneel with reverence—yes, kneel—before a glass case nestled into the floorboards, the contents bathed in soft golden light like a religious relic.
“I’ve got it,”
I say, voice low and deadly serious, like I’m about to drop some sacred revelation from the mountaintop of aesthetic genius.
Luna lifts a brow.
“This should be good.”
With a slow, dramatic flourish, I press my hand to the biometric scanner. A soft chime. The lock releases. Snake-skin boots. White. Gleaming. Pointed toe. The kind of thing that would make a god blush.
“Oh no,”
Luna says instantly.
I hold one up like it’s Excalibur. “Yes.”
She’s already shaking her head.
“No, .”
“Cowboy chic is timeless, baby. You just don’t understand the vision yet.”
“You’re about to pair that with—”
Her eyes narrow, following my hand as I reach toward the shelf above and pull down a worn black cowboy hat with a feather tucked in the band. “—That?”
“This hat once belonged to a demon lord who tried to steal my soul in a poker game.”
“Did he lose because you were wearing that?”
“No. I won by seducing his sister. But that’s not the point.”
Luna groans and sinks deeper into the velvet chair, draping an arm dramatically over her eyes.
“Please. I’m begging you. Just wear the suit.”
“Are you sure?”
I ask, already toeing the boots on, shifting my hips with flair.
“You don’t want to see me in my outlaw era? Veyd: renegade heartbreaker, saloon legend, terror of the supernatural West.”
“You are many things, ,”
she says, dropping her arm to glare at me.
“But subtle is not one of them. And if you walk into that dinner looking like an unhinged rodeo prince, I will pretend I don’t know you.”
I clutch my chest like she’s wounded me.
“Betrayed by my own bonded. The pain. The anguish.”
She just stares.
I sigh, kick off the boots with a loud thunk, and hang the hat back on its hook like I’m returning a crown.
“Fine. The black suit lives another day. But one day you’ll see. The world isn’t ready for Cowboy .”
“The world is never ready for you,”
she mutters.
I walk toward her, undoing the top button of my shirt, loosening the cuffs, letting myself lounge in that perfect, dangerous edge between put-together and ready to ruin things. Her eyes track me the entire way, and it sends a thrill through me. Because for all her sass and snark, Luna watches me like she sees through every joke. Every exaggerated movement. Every cringey line I toss her way.
She sees me.
And gods, I love her for it.
I lean down, brushing a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek, then hovering just over her lips.
“You’ll be thinking about those boots later, won’t you?”
She hums.
“Only when I need a laugh.”
“You wound me, Luna.”
“And you adore it.”
“I do,”
I admit, grinning.
“Every last stab.”
Her hand brushes mine, fingers tangling briefly before pulling back. That quiet connection always slips in when neither of us is trying. I linger there, watching the way her smile softens when it’s just us and no one’s watching.
And then I step back, spinning once, finger guns and all.
“Alright, your sinfully dressed court jester is ready for whatever mischief awaits. Let’s go find Elias and force him to compliment me.”
“You’re going to make him cry.”
“Only if he has taste.”
We strut down the hallway like gods on a catwalk—or at least, I do. Luna trails beside me, her amusement practically vibrating through the bond. My black suit hugs my frame like sin incarnate, collar popped just enough to suggest scandal. The boots are shined, the swagger real. And yeah, maybe I added a ring or two. Gold. Obnoxious. Perfect.
I stop at Elias’ door and lean against the frame, forearm propped above my head in a dramatic lounge. Classic door lean. Effective. Seductive. Infuriating.
Luna giggles behind me, and my grin stretches wider.
I don’t knock.
I push the door open with the toe of my shoe, slow and theatrical.
“Oh Elias, darling, your fashion fairy god-devil has arrived.”
There’s a muffled groan. A flurry of blanket. And then Elias, half-buried in a heap of pillows, cracks open one silver eye.
“Absolutely not,”
he rasps, voice rough with sleep and disdain.
“Whatever this is, I reject it.”
“You haven’t even heard the pitch yet,”
I protest, sauntering in like I own the place, which I basically do.
“Also—rude. I brought couture. I brought sparkle. I brought me.”
Elias rolls away with the grace of a dead cat.
“You also brought noise, ego, and a disturbing amount of hair product.”
“You’re jealous I have curls that defy gravity.”
“I’m allergic to your entire vibe.”
Luna’s perched near the door now, watching us like we’re her favorite comedy act—and, to be fair, we are.
I throw open Elias’ closet like I’m hosting a game show.
“We’re playing dress-up.”
“I’m not five.”
“No, but you are criminally underdressed for standing next to this masterpiece,”
I say, motioning down my body with both hands.
“I can’t be the only one turning heads.”
“I plan on avoiding all heads,”
Elias mutters into his pillow.
“And eyes. And people.”
“For team morale,”
I say solemnly.
Elias groans again.
“There’s not enough whiskey in this godforsaken school.”
“Then I’ll seduce you into a suit the old-fashioned way.”
I pause.
“With emotional manipulation and guilt.”
He sits up, glaring with bleary-eyed menace.
“If you touch my leather jacket, I will murder you.”
“Our leather jacket,”
I correct.
“You forget, I’ve worn it more than you.”
“That’s a crime against fabric.”
“Your face is a crime against—”
“,”
Luna warns gently.
I straighten, innocent.
“I was going to say symmetry.”
Elias glares harder, but there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth. A crack. A tell. He’s amused. Just barely.
“Come on,”
I coax, already rifling through his clothes with wild abandon.
“Just try on a few options. Luna gets to rate us. Best dressed gets a kiss.”
Luna lifts an eyebrow.
“That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“It is now,”
I say, winking.
“Besides, I’m rigging the votes. You know I’ll win.”
Elias sighs like he’s aged three hundred years in the last thirty seconds. But when I toss him a crisp white shirt—tailored, dangerous, fuckable—he catches it.
He doesn’t throw it back.
Progress.
“You’re unbearable,”
he mutters.
“And irresistible,”
I reply, unbuttoning my jacket, handing it to him, and flashing her a grin.
“Right, Luna?”
She just shakes her head, smiling, eyes flicking between us. There’s something soft in her expression now, something warm beneath the laughter. And I feel it—threading into the bond, a pulse of affection so thick and quiet it fills the room.
He’s standing there like he doesn’t know he’s gorgeous. Like my coat—my coat—isn’t clinging to him like it was made for the devil himself. The lapels lie just wrong on him, somehow sharper, edgier, like they’ve decided to behave better under his hands.
Unacceptable.
“You’re not allowed to look hotter than me in my own damn jacket,”
I announce, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
Elias lifts a brow, utterly unimpressed.
“Didn’t know we were grading on ego bruises today.”
“Oh, we always are,”
I say, stepping forward.
“Now take it off.”
He blinks slowly, mouth twitching.
“Wow. Not even a drink first?”
“I said take it off,”
I repeat, reaching for the collar.
Elias sidesteps, grabbing my wrist.
“Touch me again and I swear—”
“—you’ll what?”
I purr, eyes locked on his.
“Cry? Moan? Realize you like it?”
“I will bite you.”
“That’s foreplay, sweetheart.”
He growls, actual growls, and I’m grinning now, full teeth, wicked. I lunge, he dodges, we collide—limbs tangling, breath hot and ragged. I manage to hook my fingers beneath the collar and yank. The coat comes halfway off before Elias grabs the hem and pulls it back on.
“You are not stripping me,” he snaps.
“I am reclaiming stolen property,”
I argue, fingers tightening.
We’re wrestling now, like children with knives, like gods who’ve forgotten how to be divine. He’s stronger than he looks, wiry and fast, but I’ve got leverage. We stumble against the couch, crashing sideways, and I end up straddling him, one hand fisted in the lapel, the other braced beside his head.
“You done?”
Elias pants, glaring up at me.
“Not even close.”
We’re both breathing hard. Too close. Not close enough. My eyes flick to his mouth, the way it curves, infuriating and familiar. My chest burns with affection I will never, ever say out loud.
He looks back at me like he knows.
And then Luna laughs.
The spell breaks. I glance over my shoulder to see her shaking her head, eyes alight with something complicated—something warm. Like she’s watching her favorite brand of disaster.
“You two need to get a room,” she says.
I smirk.
“We have one. He just keeps trying to escape it.”
Elias shoves me off him and peels the jacket away, thrusting it at my chest like it’s a weapon.
“Here. Take your damn coat. And never make me play fashion doll again.”
I clutch the jacket to my chest like it’s sacred.
“He loved it.”
Luna hums, gliding toward us like moonlight wrapped in mischief.
“You both looked very hot.”
Elias groans. I preen.
“See?”
I say, nudging him with my elbow.
“Validation from the goddess herself.”
Elias is being difficult. As if my fashion sense hasn’t single-handedly improved the aesthetic of this cursed academy by at least thirty percent. As if he hasn’t benefited from my taste—my gift—every time he steps out in something that doesn’t look like it was peeled off a corpse in a ditch.
He flops across the bed, face-down, limbs spread like a crime scene chalk outline. “No.”
“I haven’t said anything yet,”
I point out, crossing the room like I’m on a runway, hips loose, chin high.
“But thanks for the enthusiasm.”
He groans into the pillow.
“Whatever it is, the answer is no.”
I stop at the foot of the bed and plant my hands on my hips. “Elias.”
“No.”
“Eliiiiassss.”
“No!”
Luna lifts a brow at me, amused.
“What are you trying to do to him?”
“I’m trying to save him,”
I say, throwing a dramatic hand over my heart.
“From his own appalling taste. From the trauma of yet another faded hoodie and those boots that look like they lost a war.”
Elias rolls onto his back and flips me off without looking.
“This is why no one takes you seriously.”
“Correction. They take me too seriously. That’s the problem.”
I smirk, stalking over to Luna. I nudge her ankle with my foot.
“You want to help me?”
She smiles like she knows I’m about to drag her into trouble, but she doesn’t say no.
I spin on my heel and gesture for Elias to follow.
“Up. Come. Now. This is an emergency.”
“Unless someone’s dying, I’m not moving.”
I pause.
“Your style is dying. Tragic. Now move.”
Elias sighs like I’m asking him to run a marathon. But he gets up, slouching behind me like a reluctant ghost.
I lead them down the hallway, past the old wing that still carries the scent of fire and old magic, straight to the room that technically used to be mine. The one I technically never gave up. The door creaks open, and I usher them inside with a theatrical bow.
Elias raises a brow.
“You dragged us in here for—what, memories?”
“Shut up,”
I whisper, grinning. I press my finger to my lips and walk to the far wall. Luna leans in, curious, her hair falling over her shoulder like a curtain. I shoot her a wink before pressing the button.
A soft hiss. A mechanical click. And then the wall splits open.
Elias stares.
“Welcome,”
I say, voice low and reverent.
“to the Closet.”
It’s not just a wardrobe. It’s an archive. Floor-to-ceiling racks of clothes categorized by era, occasion, danger level. Velvet from the 1600s. Leather from a biker gang that doesn’t exist anymore. A row of cloaks that all have stories I’ll never tell. And the crown jewel—my collection of suits. Impeccable. Untouchable.
Elias lets out a slow, horrified breath.
“You’re a monster.”
“Excuse you.”
I pull a hanger off the rack and hold it against his chest.
“I’m a visionary.”
He swats my hand away.
“You’ve got more outfits than personalities.”
“I am all my personalities,”
I say, pulling a navy blazer with silver threadwork off its perch.
“Now, try this on.”
“Why?”
“Because if you wear that rat hoodie again, I will set it on fire. Slowly. In front of you.”
Luna laughs behind us.
“You’re not even kidding.”
I turn, finger raised.
“No. I’m not.”
It takes more bribes than I’m proud of, but eventually Elias tries on the blazer. It fits too well, and I hate him a little for it. I hate him a lot for the way Luna bites her lip when she looks at him in it.
“Okay,”
I mutter.
“He can live.”
Elias starts to take it off, but I shake my head.
“Nope. That’s yours now. You can’t return sacred relics.”
He snorts, tossing it over a chair.
“Where do these end up when I forget to give them back?”
I glance at Luna. She shifts slightly, sheepish.
“Your room,”
I say, smug.
“Inside my section of her closet.”
Luna flushes.
“It’s not a section. It’s… organized chaos.”
“It’s a shrine,”
Elias mutters.
“It’s a legacy,”
I correct.
“One day, historians will study my closet and weep.”
He throws a pillow at me. I let it hit me dramatically and fall back onto the bed like I’ve been shot.
Luna laughs again, and I’d die a thousand deaths to hear it again and again. To make her smile with my chaos. My idiocy. Because it’s not really about the clothes.
It never was.
It’s about pulling them closer. Stitch by stitch. Seam by seam.