Sera sat on the edge of Lucien's bed, wrapped in nothing but one of his black shirts. The silk stuck to her damp skin, clinging like a second shadow. Her body still hummed from the things they'd done just hours before, but her mind couldn't settle.
Lucien was in the shower. She could hear the soft spray of water, the subtle groan of ancient pipes. But her attention wasn't on him now.
It was on the silver box he kept locked in the drawer beside the bed.
He never touched it when she was around. Never looked at it. Never let her close. But something in her blood tonight whispered, Open it.
Her hand moved on instinct.
The drawer creaked. The lock clicked open without resistance. As if it wanted her to see.
Inside, under a layer of black velvet, were faded photographs, burned edges, scraps of letters, and one torn journal entry—blood-stained and smudged.
She reached for the journal page, fingertips trembling.
"If she returns, the bond will snap like before. But this time, I won't survive it. Not again. They say the Moonblood curse skips generations. But she bears the mark. She is it. My mate… or my death."
Sera blinked, her heart skipping.
Moonblood?
Was that what they'd called her in the alley that night?
Before she could piece the thought together, the shower stopped.
Footsteps.
Lucien stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips. His chest, wet and gleaming, rose and fell with calm breaths—until he saw the open drawer.
And the page in her hands.
The calm shattered.
"You read it," he said. His voice wasn't angry. It was flat. Lethal.
"I didn't mean to," she whispered, though it was a lie.
Lucien stepped closer. "That page was the only piece I kept from her."
"Her?" she echoed.
He didn't answer.
Not in words.
Instead, he stepped forward and lifted her chin with one hand, tilting her face toward his.
"She had your eyes," he said darkly. "But she didn't survive the bond."
Sera froze.
"You think I'm going to die," she breathed. "Because of you."
"No," he murmured. "Because of what you are."
He kissed her then. Hard. Desperate. Like a man clinging to something he knew he'd lose. His lips bruised hers, and when he laid her down on the bed again, the tension wasn't lust. It was survival. Madness. A fire to keep the monsters at bay.
She clung to him. Let him consume her. Let him bury the truth beneath the heat.
But it was there now.
The truth had blood between the lines.
And it was coming for them both.