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It starts, as most things do with Rook, in laughter.
The firelight casts long shadows across the dining hall, flickering gold over the worn stone, over the faces gathered around the warmth. Their group is relaxed, caught in the easy lull of shared stories and camaraderie. Rook is at the center of it, as she so often is, curled against the chaise with one leg tucked beneath her, her red curls wild and untamed in the light. She laughs, head tilting back, eyes scrunching at the corners, the sound unguarded and full of life.
Lucanis does not laugh. He watches.
He tells himself it is habit, that he has always been one to observe rather than participate. He has spent his life at the edges of rooms, listening, learning, storing away secrets in the quiet of his mind. But this is different. This is not the sharpened focus of an assassin studying his mark. This is something looser, something slipping from his grasp before he can name it.
Rook’s laughter settles in his chest, lodges deep between his ribs, and refuses to be ignored.
He does not understand how she does it—how she moves so effortlessly through the world, how she carries herself with such boldness, such warmth. How she gives so freely of herself, when the rest of them have learned to hoard their softness like a secret. Lucanis has known assassins, thieves, survivors, men and women carved from stone and spite. Rook is something else entirely. A storm, wild and untethered, and yet—there is something beneath it, something he cannot quite name. A weight, a weariness hidden behind the ease of her grin.
He does not realize he is staring until her gaze meets his across the fire. Green eyes, too bright, too knowing.
Lucanis does not look away. He does not flinch. He simply tilts his head, the barest quirk of his lips giving away nothing.
Rook holds his gaze for a moment too long, something unreadable flickering across her face before Bellara nudges her, dragging her back into conversation. She turns away, but the moment lingers.
Lucanis exhales slowly. He forces himself to look elsewhere, to fold his thoughts neatly into something manageable, something distant. It is nothing, he tells himself. Just curiosity. A passing thought, easily dismissed.
And yet, when she laughs again, his fingers curl against his palm, the sound settling deep, echoing in places he is not ready to examine.
It is nothing, he tells himself.
It is nothing at all.
She feels his eyes on her before she sees him.
It is a peculiar thing—how Lucanis watches. Most people study others with intent, with some purpose, some desired outcome. Lucanis watches like a man standing at the edge of a precipice, looking down into something deep and unknowable. As if he is searching for something even he cannot name.
She tries not to let it affect her. She has spent her life being observed, being judged, weighed, measured. Eyes on her are nothing new. And yet, his gaze lingers in a way that unsettles her. Not because it is unwelcome, but because she has no idea what to do with it.
The others laugh, the fire crackling between them, the warmth of the moment easy and golden. She joins in, because that is what she does, because laughter is lighter than the things she would rather not hold. Her shoulder bumps against Bellara’s, and she lets herself relax into the rhythm of their camaraderie.
But Lucanis is still there. Still watching.
She risks a glance, and their eyes meet across the fire.
Rook has always been good at reading people, at peeling them open with nothing but a well-placed word, a knowing smile. It has saved her skin more times than she can count. But Lucanis is unreadable in a way that frustrates her. He gives her nothing. A tilt of the head, the faintest twitch of his lips, and that gaze—steady, intent, utterly infuriating.
Something curls in her stomach, something unsteady. She should look away, she knows this. But she holds his gaze a second too long, searching for—what? Confirmation? An answer?
She finds neither.
Bellara nudges her, saying something, and the moment breaks. Rook forces a grin, leans back into the conversation, pretends she does not feel like something was left unresolved.
But later, when the fire has burned low and the others drift off one by one, she catches sight of him again—Lucanis, standing at the edge of the group, half in shadow, half in light. Watching, always watching.
She exhales, shaking her head at herself. Foolish.
It is nothing, she tells herself. A game of glances, an unspoken challenge. It will pass, like all things do.
And yet, even as she retreats to her room, the weight of his gaze lingers on her skin, long after he is gone.
Lucanis does not know when watching became wanting.
It is a slow, creeping thing, this ache. An ember buried beneath the weight of self-control, smoldering at the edges of his thoughts before he even recognizes the heat. He tells himself it is nothing, a passing curiosity, an interest born from habit. He has spent his life studying people, understanding their weaknesses, their tells. That is all this is.
And yet.
Rook moves through the world with a kind of carelessness he cannot afford. She laughs easily, touches freely, throws herself into the lives of others without hesitation. She is bold where he is careful, open where he is guarded. He does not understand her, not fully, and that should be enough to keep him at a distance. But instead, it drags him closer, like a tide he cannot fight.
She looks at him sometimes, like she is trying to decipher something written just beneath his skin. She holds his gaze a little too long, lingers in his orbit when she should step away. He tells himself it means nothing. That she is like this with everyone. That the weight of her attention is not something special.
He is lying to himself, and he knows it.
It is in the way she tilts her head when he speaks, the way her eyes track him across a room even when she pretends not to. It is in the way she smiles—different, softer, when she thinks he is not looking. But he is always looking. Always cataloging every shift, every flicker of emotion.
He should put space between them. He should let this feeling die in the quiet, before it becomes something worse. But he does not move. He lingers. He listens to her laugh, and the ember flares to life, spreading warmth where there should only be cold.
It is dangerous, this thing between them. Unspoken, unacknowledged, fragile in its uncertainty. But Lucanis has never feared danger.
And so, he does nothing.
He watches. He waits. And he wonders how much longer he can pretend that this is nothing at all.
It is getting harder to ignore.
Lucanis is not a man who gives himself away easily. He is composed, careful, always calculating. But Rook has spent her life learning how to read people, and Lucanis—damn him—has tells. Small things, barely noticeable to anyone else. The way his gaze lingers when he thinks she isn’t paying attention. The way his fingers twitch at his sides, as if he is resisting some unseen urge. The way his smirk tilts a little differently when it’s meant for her.
She shouldn’t think anything of it. She shouldn’t let it mean anything. But every time their eyes meet across a room, every time his voice dips low and smooth just for her, something tightens in her chest.
She has tried to rationalize it. Maybe he watches because he watches everyone. Maybe he is merely studying her, as he does with every potential threat. But there are moments—fleeting, aching moments—when she wonders if there is something else beneath it. Something she is too afraid to name.
Because the truth is, she notices him too.
She tells herself she does not seek him out, but that is a lie. She looks for him in every room, in every gathering, in every battle. Her eyes betray her before her mind catches up, searching for the familiar shape of him in the crowd, cataloging the way he moves, the way the candlelight catches on his cheekbones, the way his gloved fingers rest against the hilt of his blade. It is absurd, this fixation, this pull toward him that she cannot seem to resist.
She reminds herself of what she is—what she has been. A runaway. A thief. A woman made of lightning and sharp edges, grasping for things she cannot have. Lucanis is careful. Measured. He does not covet what he cannot possess. He would never—
“Rook.”
His voice, close, pulls her from her thoughts. She turns, startled to find him standing nearer than she expected. Close enough that the heat of him brushes against her skin, that the scent of Antivan leather and steel lingers in the air between them.
She swallows hard, masking the way her breath hitches. “Lucanis.”
He doesn’t speak right away. Just studies her, sharp and unreadable, like he is weighing something, deciding whether to voice it or swallow it whole. For a moment, she almost asks— What? What do you see when you look at me like that?
But she doesn’t. Because she isn’t sure she wants to hear the answer.
The silence stretches too long, too thick. She forces a grin, shifts her weight onto one foot. “You’re brooding again, Lucanis. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were thinking about something important.”
His lips twitch—almost a smirk, almost something more. “You always think you know better.”
She arches a brow, tilting her head. “Don’t I?”
A pause. A breath. A beat too long.
Then, his voice dips lower. “Not always.”
Her stomach flips. She hates that it does.
She forces herself to laugh, light and easy, the way she always does when something threatens to dig too deep. “Well, damn. Guess I’ll have to work on that.”
She moves past him before he can say anything else, before she can let herself sink any further into this dangerous thing coiling between them. But even as she walks away, even as she swallows down the heat rising in her throat, she knows—
She is already in too deep.
It is becoming unbearable.
Lucanis has known want before. He has known hunger, desire, the sharp edge of something just out of reach. He has spent his life mastering restraint, bending his own wants into something distant, something he can control. But this—
This is something else.
Rook moves through his thoughts like a shadow he cannot shake. Every glance, every brush of her fingers against his arm, every damn smirk that lingers a moment too long—it is maddening. It is not just her presence but the weight of it, the way she draws him in without effort, without even meaning to.
He has made a study of her. He tells himself it is a necessity, that knowing her rhythms, her tells, makes them better in battle. But he knows better. He knows it is something far more dangerous.
She looks at him like she sees something past the masks he has spent a lifetime perfecting. Like she could reach past them if she only tried. And the worst part is—he is not sure he would stop her.
He should not want this. He should not want her .
But Maker help him, he does.
It is in the way he leans toward her without meaning to, in the way his fingers twitch with the urge to touch, to anchor her to him, just for a moment. It is in the way her name feels different on his tongue, something sacred, something secret. It is in the way he watches her even when he should not, even when the cost of this wanting feels too high.
And worst of all, it is in the way she watches him back.
Because she does. He has seen it, felt it. The way her gaze lingers, the way she hesitates just a second too long before pulling away. The way she looks at him like she is trying to solve a puzzle, and it makes him want to give her every missing piece.
Lucanis clenches his fists, forcing himself to breathe, to push this away before it burns through him completely. He is not a reckless man. He has built himself out of discipline, out of silence. But this feeling—this fire in his chest— is testing him.
Because it would be so easy to close the space between them. To lift a hand to her jaw, trace the curve of it, let his thumb rest at the corner of her mouth just to see if she would tilt into him. To press her back against the wall and say her name, just to watch how she unraveled at the sound of it. To give in.
But he does none of these things.
Instead, he swallows the want, locks it behind gritted teeth, and does what he has always done.
He watches. He waits. And he suffers.
She is going to lose her mind. It is unbearable, this thing between them. The glances that last too long, the way his voice dips when he says her name, the way the air feels charged whenever they are near each other. It coils in her stomach, tight and restless, a longing she refuses to name.
Lucanis is a careful man. A measured one. He does not do anything without reason, without precision. But Rook is not a fool—she has spent her life reading people, and she knows the difference between indifference and restraint.
Lucanis is not indifferent.
He watches her like she is a puzzle he cannot solve, like he is memorizing every movement, every word. And worse—he lingers. He stays just long enough to make her wonder, just close enough to make her burn. She has caught his hand twitching at his side, resisting the urge to reach for her. She has felt the weight of his stare, the heat in it, the want.
And Maker help her, she wants too.
It is reckless. It is dangerous. It is inevitable.
She catches him watching her now, across the firelight, his expression unreadable but his body taut, as if holding himself back. It sends a thrill through her, a spark that catches at the edges of her control. She should not play with this. She should walk away before it becomes too much.
But Rook has never been one to leave well enough alone.
She stands, crosses the space between them, and drops onto the bench beside him. Close—too close. She does not look at him right away, lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of her presence press against him. She feels him tense, the slightest shift, but he does not pull away.
Finally, she tilts her head, lets a small, knowing smirk pull at her lips. "You know, Lucanis, if you keep looking at me like that, people are going to start talking."
His jaw tics. His eyes flicker with something dangerous, something restrained. "Let them talk."
The words send a shiver down her spine. Maker, she is in trouble .
She exhales, tries for lightness, for something to keep her steady. "That doesn’t sound like you."
"You don’t know everything about me," he murmurs, voice low, rough.
Her heart pounds against her ribs. She swallows. "No, I suppose I don’t."
She should stop. She should say something sharp and teasing, make light of the tension. But she does not move, and neither does he. The space between them is thin, stretched, ready to snap.
She wonders what would happen if she gave in. If she reached for him first, just to see if he would let her. If he would shatter against her.
But Lucanis is looking at her like he already knows the answer.
And that terrifies her most of all.
Lucanis has known battle. He has known pain. He has known the razor-thin line between control and surrender.
But nothing—nothing—has ever burned like this.
Rook is too close. The scent of her—storm-bright, electric, something untamed—clings to the air between them, curling around him like a whisper of a promise. She does not touch him, but Maker, he feels her.
She had crossed the space between them so carelessly, dropped onto the bench at his side as if she did not know what she was doing. As if she did not know what she was to him.
But she knows. She has to know.
He is too careful, too trained in restraint to let himself be seen—except with her. He has slipped too many times, let his gaze linger a second too long, let his body angle toward her without thinking. He has swallowed words he should not say, clenched his hands to keep from reaching. But she watches him as if she has noticed every single moment. As if she is waiting for him to break.
Lucanis tells himself he still has control.
It is a lie.
Control should not feel this fragile, this paper-thin. It should not tremble beneath the weight of a single glance, a single step closer. But Rook is standing before him, too near, too present, and he feels it slipping.
The silence between them is thick, humming with something unspoken. Something that has been growing, curling at the edges of every interaction, every moment that lasts just a little too long.
She lingers. He does not step back.
Rook tilts her head, searching his face, her voice softer than usual, careful in a way that makes his breath catch. "You keep looking at me like that, Lucanis."
He swallows, his fingers curling at his sides. "Like what?"
She studies him. He can feel it—her eyes mapping every flicker of restraint, every shift in his stance, every inhale that is a fraction too shallow. "Like you’re trying to keep control."
Lucanis wants to deny it. He wants to say something sharp and final, something that will cut this tension before it swallows them both whole. But he cannot. Because she is right.
She is close enough that if he reached, if he let himself, he could slide his fingers beneath the edge of her jaw, tilt her chin up—
Maker. He is losing this battle.
Her gaze flickers downward, just for a second, a hesitation so small most wouldn’t notice. But Lucanis does. And not for the first time, he wonders—
Does she want this too?
The thought nearly ruins him.
She inhales, slow, measured, like she is trying to decide something. And then, she shifts forward. Barely. But it is enough.
Lucanis stiffens. His breath catches in his throat. His fingers twitch at his sides. She is testing him.
He wants to fail.
The moment stretches, fragile as glass. She is sitting close enough that he can feel the warmth of her skin, close enough that if he just—
No.
Not like this. Not when the air between them is still laced with uncertainty, with hesitation. If he takes this step, there cannot be doubt. He cannot afford to risk it.
So he exhales, quiet, careful, and pulls his control around himself like armor. "Go to bed, Rook."
She does not move immediately. She lingers, eyes flickering over his face, searching for something. He wonders if she finds it.
Then, slowly, she leans back. Her lips part, just slightly, like she is on the verge of saying something—but instead, she exhales, the tension in her shoulders unraveling just enough to make it seem like this never happened.
"Goodnight, Lucanis."
His name is a weight in her mouth, settling deep in his chest. He watches as she turns, as she steps away, her fingers twitching like she is holding herself back from something.
And it is in that moment, as she disappears down the hall, that Lucanis knows—
She is burning just as much as he is.
One of them will break.
And when that moment comes, Lucanis is no longer certain either of them will survive it.
She should not have stopped.
She should not have lingered. Should not have stepped closer. Should not have let herself search his face for something—anything—that might make sense of the way he looks at her, the way his fingers twitch like he’s resisting some unseen pull, the way his voice lowers when he says her name.
But she had. And now, she is paying for it.
Her feet move on instinct, carrying her away, but her thoughts do not follow. They are stuck back there, back in the too-small space between them, in the unbearable weight of his gaze, in the silence that had stretched so thin she could feel it.
She had wanted to reach for him.
The realization crashes through her, hot and undeniable, leaving her breathless. She had wanted him to reach for her too.
The worst part? She thinks he almost did.
Her fingers curl at her sides. She still feels the ghost of him in the air, the heat of his presence brushing against her skin, the restrained tension in his stance. He had not stepped back.
Lucanis, always so disciplined, always so unreadable, had let something slip tonight. And Rook—reckless, insatiable, foolish—had seen it. Felt it.
Her pulse hammers against her ribs. She had asked for this, hadn’t she? She had pushed him, testing the edges of whatever this is, hoping for—
What?
For him to stop her? For him to let her go? Or for him to give in?
And that is the heart of it, isn’t it? She wants him to give in. She wants to see him undone, wants to hear her name in his mouth not as a carefully measured thing, but as something raw, something wrecked. She wants to know what he would look like if he stopped holding himself back, if he let himself take what he so clearly wants.
And she is terrified that what she wants is to let him.
Rook exhales sharply, shaking her head at herself. This is dangerous.
The slow burn of it, the inevitability, the way her body knows before her mind catches up—it is going to destroy them.
And still, she had stood there, waiting, watching, wanting.
Lucanis had let the silence stretch too long, had looked at her like he was barely holding himself together, had swallowed words he had not dared speak.
She wonders if they were the same words trapped in her own throat.
She tells herself to let it go, to forget it, to pretend nothing happened. But she knows better. She can still feel the weight of his gaze, the tension thrumming between them, the way her body had leaned toward him before she even realized she was moving.
It is too late for forgetting. The damage is already done.
Her hands shake. She clenches them into fists, as if that will steady her, as if that will erase the heat curling beneath her skin.
One of them is going to break.
Lucanis comes back to himself in pieces.
A breath, sharp and unsteady. The cold press of stone against his back. The weight of something heavy curling inside his ribs. Spite had taken control again.
Taash is speaking, but he barely hears them. His focus narrows, sharpens, fixes—on her.
Rook stands before him, steady as ever, her gaze unwavering, unshaken. How does she never flinch? He wants her to—wants her to see him for what he is, for what lurks beneath his skin, wants her to recognize that this—he—is dangerous. But she doesn’t look afraid. If anything, she looks… determined. As if she refuses to let him slip away.
Taash leaves. The door clicks shut behind them, sealing them in this small, dim space, the air thick with something too much to name.
Lucanis exhales sharply, dragging a hand over his face. “Spite was sleepwalking.”
“He didn’t go anywhere,” Rook says, her voice even, like a blade tempered in fire. “Nothing happened.”
He should take comfort in that, should be relieved. But the tightness in his chest remains. He swallows against it. “I didn’t want you to see that.”
Her expression softens, and that is worse—because it isn’t pity, isn’t fear. It is something gentler, something weightier. “Nothing I’m seeing makes me want to look away.”
Lucanis stills.
The words wrap around his ribs, sink deep into the places he has kept hidden for too long. Maker, why does she do this to him? He spent his whole life learning how to be a shadow, how to slip past notice, how to make himself unreadable. But Rook sees him, always, in ways no one else ever has. And worse—she stays.
His jaw tightens. He shakes his head, his voice rough when he finally speaks. “How do you always do that?”
She tilts her head. “Do what?”
“Break apart my perfectly gathered clouds of doom?” His lips twitch, something wry, something vulnerable. He wants to say more—you deserve better than this, better than me—but he doesn’t. He swallows it whole.
She smiles, small and certain. “You are more than what you’re going through.” Her voice softens, teasing now, but sincere. “Besides, you wear it well.”
A short, quiet breath of laughter escapes him. Maker, she is impossible.
And then, before he can think better of it, before he can stop himself—he moves.
One step forward. Then another. Closer.
The air shifts, thickens, the space between them shrinking into something unbearably small. His breath is uneven now, his pulse hammering in his throat as he braces one hand against the wall beside her, as his body angles toward hers—too close, too much, too dangerous.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. A warning. A plea.
Rook doesn’t move away. She tilts her chin up, her breath brushing warm against his skin. “Sometimes, a bad idea is better.”
Maker.
Heat coils low in his stomach, sharp and insistent. His restraint is slipping, thread-thin, fraying at the edges. This is reckless. This is inevitable.
His gaze flickers to her mouth. A mistake. A terrible, damning mistake.
“You like to walk a little too close to the edge,” his voice is rough and low, he barely recognises it.
Her fingers lift, tracing the chain at his collar, a touch so light it shouldn’t undo him the way it does. But it does. Maker, it does.
“So do you,” she whispers.
Lucanis exhales sharply, his control unraveling thread by thread. “At least I know I’m doing it.”
The tension between them crackles, electric. His breath hitches. She wants this. He sees it in the way she watches him, the way she doesn’t pull away, the way she lingers in his orbit, always just close enough to drive him to the edge.
He is going to kiss her.
He knows it in the way his body moves without permission, his head dipping lower, his breath mingling with hers. The world narrows to nothing but her—the warmth of her skin, the way her lips part slightly, expectant, waiting. His fingers twitch, aching to reach for her, to anchor himself in the thing he has been fighting against for too long.
And Rook—Maker, Rook leans in too.
That is what shatters him.
She is meeting him there, a breath away, her eyes searching his, her body tilted toward him, wanting.
Lucanis' stomach twists, something sharp and unbearable cutting through the moment. If he kisses her now, if he lets himself have this, he will never stop.
And she—she deserves more than hesitation. More than a man who cannot trust himself.
His hands shake as he takes another step back, as if distance will fix this, as if it will take back the way he had leaned in, the way he had wanted.
“I… need to clear my head.” His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. He does not look at her as he turns away, as he grips the edge of the doorframe like an anchor. “Excuse me.”
And then, he flees.
Each step is a mistake. Each step is regret.
Because he wanted to kiss her. Because she wanted him to. Because she will not wait forever.
And because now, he knows with certainty that when one of them breaks, it will be him.
She is still standing there.
The pantry is empty now, save for her, the dim candlelight, and the ghost of Lucanis’ almost-kiss lingering in the air. She should move, should leave, should shake this off with the same ease she carries everything else. But her legs feel heavy, rooted to the stone floor, her breath still uneven in her chest.
Lucanis had leaned in. He had leaned in. And for a fleeting, breathless moment, she had thought—hoped—that he was finally going to break. That she wouldn’t have to be the only one drowning in this unbearable, aching want.
And then he had fled.
The absence of him is staggering, a hollow thing that presses into her ribs, refusing to let go. Her fingers tighten at her sides. She should be frustrated, should be furious, should call him a coward under her breath and pretend it doesn’t sting. But she can’t. Because when he pulled away, she had seen it—the hesitation, the regret, the war waging inside him.
He had wanted to stay. Just as badly as she had wanted him to.
And that is worse. So much worse.
Because if he wanted her, if he wanted this—then why hadn’t he let himself have it? Why hadn’t he just closed the space between them? Why had he looked at her like she was something fragile, something breakable, when she had only ever been a storm waiting for him to step into it?
She lifts a hand, pressing her fingers against her lips as if she might still feel his breath there, warm and unsteady, so close she could have stolen the moment for herself. She could have leaned in. She could have closed the distance. But that wasn’t what she wanted. She didn’t want to steal something he wasn’t ready to give.
Her eyes drift shut, frustration curling in her chest. She had known this would happen, hadn’t she? Lucanis doesn’t give in easily. He doesn’t let himself want. Not openly, not fully. She knows that better than anyone. And yet…
And yet, tonight had been different.
Tonight, his mask had cracked. She had felt it.
The weight of his gaze. The way his fingers twitched, like he was stopping himself from reaching for her. The way he had leaned in, slow, deliberate, like he had already made up his mind.
He had wanted her.
The realization sends a sharp, aching thrill through her—one she refuses to name, one she refuses to dwell on for longer than a second. But it’s too late. It’s already buried itself deep beneath her ribs, curling into something dangerous. Something inevitable.
She exhales, slow and measured, trying to steady herself. But the truth is, she is unsteady. She presses a hand against the cool stone wall as if it might ground her, but nothing will—not when her body is still alight with the memory of him, of his closeness, of the way his voice had roughened, lower than she had ever heard it before.
And the worst part is that she doesn’t regret a second of it.
Because now she knows.
He is going to break first.
Not tonight. Not yet. But soon.
And when he does, when he finally stops running, when he finally lets himself have what they both know is already there—
She will be waiting.
He is breaking, his resolve is shattering like untempered steel.
The thought has been circling him like a vulture for days, gnawing at his restraint, fraying the last shreds of control he has spent his life perfecting. He feels it in the way his body tenses at the sound of her laughter, in the way his pulse stutters when she speaks his name, in the way every room seems smaller when she is in it.
And Maker help him, he feels it in the way he still burns from the night in the pantry.
He has not forgotten the way she had looked at him, the way she had tipped her chin up ever so slightly, waiting, expectant, breathless. He has not forgotten the warmth of her, the way his hands had itched to reach for her, to take what he has wanted for so long but has denied himself. He has not forgotten the way she had leaned in too, the silent confirmation of yes, this is real, you are not alone in this.
He had run.
And ever since, something inside him has been unraveling, slipping through his fingers like sand. His control, his restraint, the careful distance he has kept—it is meaningless now.
Because he knows. Rook wants him too.
And that knowledge is the beginning of the end.
He doesn’t remember making the decision to seek her out. One moment, he is pacing his chambers, his thoughts a storm, his hands curled into fists as if that will somehow keep them from reaching for her. The next, he is outside her door, his breath uneven, his heart hammering so hard it drowns out everything else.
This is reckless. This is inevitable.
He knocks once. The sound is too sharp, too rough, as if he has already lost control before he has even seen her. There is silence for a moment, then the quiet shift of movement before the door opens.
Rook stands before him, clad in nothing but a loose shirt, her hair mussed from sleep, her eyes shadowed with something unreadable. His resolve falters for half a second—because Maker, she is beautiful, and he has never allowed himself the indulgence of staring at her like this, unguarded and bare.
But she is staring too. Something flickers across her face—surprise, curiosity, hope.
“Lucanis?” Her voice is quieter than usual, cautious. He has never come to her like this before, never allowed himself to be seen wanting.
He should speak, should say something to ground himself, but words have never felt more useless. Instead, he takes a step forward, slow, deliberate. She doesn’t move away. He takes another, crossing the space between them, close enough now that he can see the quickened rise and fall of her breath, the way her fingers twitch at her sides like she is waiting for something—waiting for him.
She tilts her head, searching his face. “Luc—”
But he doesn’t let her finish. He has spent too long hesitating, spent too long pretending he could live without this. He lifts a hand, cupping her jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of her mouth, and her breath catches in her throat.
She doesn’t stop him.
So he does what he should have done in the pantry.
He kisses her.
The moment their lips meet, everything collapses. The tension, the longing, the unbearable weight of waiting—it all snaps, releasing like a bowstring pulled too tight. Rook exhales against him, a sound that is half relief, half something raw and unrestrained. Her hands fist into his shirt, pulling him closer, like she has been just as desperate for this as he has.
And Maker, he was right. This was always going to ruin him.
Because kissing her is not like indulging in something forbidden. It is not a mistake. It is not a moment stolen in reckless abandon.
It is home.
It is everything he has tried to push away, everything he has convinced himself he was unworthy of having, everything he has wanted.
His other hand slides to her waist, anchoring her to him, his grip firm, possessive. Because now that he has her, now that he knows the shape of her against him, the taste of her, he cannot let go. He deepens the kiss, pouring into it every unsaid word, every glance across a room, every touch that had lingered a second too long. And Rook—Rook meets him with equal fervor.
She kisses him like she has known he would come to her eventually. Like she had been waiting, patient, unwavering, certain of his downfall. Certain that he would break.
And she was right.
Lucanis pulls back just enough to look at her, his forehead pressing against hers. Their breaths are uneven, mingling in the space between them, their hands still tangled in each other’s clothes. Rook’s eyes are bright, searching, and Maker, he has never seen anything so devastatingly beautiful.
She smiles, small and knowing. “Took you long enough.”
He exhales a quiet laugh, shaking his head, thumb still tracing slow, reverent patterns against her cheek. “You knew.”
Her fingers tighten where they rest against his chest, just over his heart. “I knew.”
He doesn’t run this time.
Instead, he kisses her again, slow and lingering, like a promise.
Because he knows now.
There is nothing left to fight.
Lucanis kisses her like a man who has finally stopped fighting.
It is not hurried, not desperate. It is slow, deliberate—like he is memorizing the shape of her against him, the way she fits into the spaces he never let himself acknowledge were empty before now. His hands are steady where they hold her, one at her waist, the other cupping her face, thumb stroking absent patterns along her cheek. He is grounding himself in this, in her, as if he cannot quite believe he is allowed to have this.
Rook smiles against his lips, her heart aching with something warm, something whole. "You’re not going to run this time?"
He exhales, a quiet, almost breathless laugh. "No."
She pulls back just enough to see him, her hands still curled in his shirt, unwilling to let go. His eyes are bright, more open than she has ever seen them. The ever-present weight of restraint, of hesitation, of self-denial—it is gone.
And Maker, he is beautiful like this.
She brushes her fingers along his jaw, feeling the tension there, the remnants of whatever war had waged inside him before he came to her. "Good."
Lucanis watches her like he is committing her to memory, like he cannot believe she is real. "I should have done this sooner."
Her lips twitch. "I knew you’d get there eventually."
His hand slides up her back, fingers threading into her hair, his touch careful, reverent. "You were waiting."
She hums, pressing her forehead against his. "Always."
And she had been. Through the stolen glances, the lingering touches, the sharp breaths that filled the space between them when one of them got too close. Through the nights where she watched him from across the fire, pretending not to notice the way his eyes found her again and again. Through every moment where she knew—knew—he wanted this just as much as she did, even if he could not bring himself to take it.
But now, he has.
Lucanis shifts, wrapping his arms fully around her, pulling her against him like he never intends to let go. Rook melts into it, into him, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, slow and soft, just to feel the way his breath hitches.
They stand there for a long moment, wrapped in warmth, wrapped in something unspoken but understood. The weight of waiting, of longing, of months spent denying this—it has all unraveled. There is no more hesitation, no more space between them.
Rook closes her eyes, letting herself sink into the steady rhythm of his breathing, into the certainty of this. He is here. He is hers.
And he is not going anywhere.