Luna exhaled in quiet relief. Her heartbeat steadied. Her mate was safe.
The temple ladies beside her gave her a regretful glance. One of them whispered, "Forgive us," before they lowered her to crouch again. Another cushion was brought for the prince, and he knelt beside her—close enough that their shoulders brushed, their breaths mingled—but there was a distance that had nothing to do with space.
"I'm sorry I'm late," Damien whispered to her.
"It's okay, you are here now," Luna replied softly, her hand instinctively reaching for his. But the instant her fingers touched his palm, she noticed it—the chill in his skin, the tension in his posture, the way he didn't fold his fingers into hers as he normally would. Her thumb brushed over his knuckles, trying to coax warmth back into him. It wasn't just the coolness of vampire skin. It was emotional frost.
Her brows knit. "Are you okay?" she asked gently, eyes searching his face.
