29. Luna
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
LUNA
“Maybe,” I say, my eyes locked on his. “You just don’t like that I don’t scare easily.”
Nico lets out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head slightly. “You should,” he says, but the words don’t land how he wants them to—not like a warning or threat. No, they land like an admission, something he wishes was true but isn’t.
A slow smile pulls at my lips. There’s a hint of something dangerous in his eyes. “Then you’ll just have to show me why,” I challenge.
He drains the last of his whiskey, fingers tightening around the glass before he sets it down. Then his gaze lifts to mine.
Neither of us move.
Neither of us breathes.
But everything between us ignites.
I try to focus on the food, the conversation, anything but the way his gaze still burns my skin. The meal winds down, but the tension between us doesn’t. Nico doesn’t say much as he pushes back from his chair, standing. I follow suit, though it does little to still the energy coursing through me.
We reach the top of the stairs, and the house is quiet, save for the soft hum of night settling in. My heartbeat still hasn’t steadied. I wonder if his has.
Nico hesitates for just a fraction of a second, his hand resting on the door handle, before he pushes it open, gesturing me to go first. I feel different tonight, and I don’t know why.
He moves toward the dresser, loosening the cuffs of his shirt, the quiet rustle of fabric, the only sound in the room. I watch him and pretend I’m not watching him.
“I meant what I said downstairs,” he mutters.
I swallow, brushing my fingers over the vanity. “Which part?”
His lips twitch. “All of it.”
I’m not sure what to do with that confession. He turns to face me. Something in the quiet feels off. There’s too much left unsaid.
And then it hits me: this isn’t about what happened downstairs. It’s about what comes next.
He steps closer. Nico’s fingers glide along my cheek, slow and deliberate, like he’s memorizing me. His touch warms my skin, but it’s his gaze that makes my chest tighten.
I meet his gaze, searching, and for a moment, the world narrows to just this—his hand on my face, the quiet intensity in his eyes, and the way my pulse refuses to settle. His thumb traces the curve of my cheekbone, and I feel everything he’s not saying.
“Nico,” I whisper. He doesn’t move, but something darkens in his eyes. The air between us is electric. Then he looks at me. Really looks. And I don’t move. I don’t need to.
His lips crash into mine, no warning, no hesitation. Then his mouth steals my very breath as his other hand finds my waist, and he pulls me in. My fingers trace his chest, the warmth of him. And in that instant, there’s no doubt. This is us.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes flutter open, and the way he looks at me makes my chest tighten. “Luna,” he breathes, like he’s been starving for me and hates himself for it.
I tilt my head, waiting to see if he’ll retreat, if this will be just another moment between us left unfinished. But he doesn’t move away. If anything, his grip tightens, his thumb brushes against the hollow of my throat, a touch so light yet so deliberate that it sends a shiver down my spine.
“You tell me I don’t know what I’m getting into,” I whisper, my voice barely above the quiet crackle of passion that hums between us. “But maybe you don’t either.”
His jaw tightens, his gaze bouncing between my lips and my eyes. And then, just like that, restraint ceases to exist.
His mouth captures mine again, urgent and possessive. His hands trail down my spine, a claiming pressure that drags me flush against him. Until the breath I’d trapped shatters into a gasp against his lips.
The kiss deepens into something primal, and I surrender completely. His warmth isn’t just around me, it’s in me, searing through every nerve until nothing exists but the taste of him and the dizzying need to get closer.
He tilts my head back with a firm palm at my jaw, swallowing my moan as he devours me. His other arm bands around my waist, fingers digging into my hip—not pain, but possession—a branding touch screaming, you feel this? You feel me? The denial shatters: this hunger is visceral and genuine.
We pull back, gasping. He doesn’t let me go.
His arms wrap around me, one hand cradling the back of my head like he’s holding the pieces of us together.
I wrap my arms around him, holding onto the only thing that feels like home.
Then I look up. His onyx eyes burn with unsated hunger.
Possession. And the weight of his hand on my hip makes it impossible to breathe.