The night pressed against the forest like a closing fist.
They left the cabin behind without looking back, their boots crunching over frost‑stiff leaves. The path was nothing more than a break in the undergrowth, lit only by the occasional glint of moonlight filtering through the tangled branches.
Lucien walked ahead, one hand always on the hilt of his sword, the other brushing the air between them as if to reassure himself she was still close.
Isadora trailed a half‑step behind, her gaze fixed on the curve of his shoulders beneath his tattered coat. It felt strange to be walking beside him again, truly beside him, without the Devil's voice filling every breath. Strange — and unbearably precious.
They had spent so long running, so long fighting shadows and fire, that she'd almost forgotten what it was to simply be with him.
---
A clearing appeared ahead, small and ringed with stones thick with moss. At its center, a fallen tree lay across the frost‑bitten grass.
Lucien stopped, scanning the perimeter. "We'll rest here. The trees will hide our firelight."
She sank onto the trunk, exhaustion pulling at her bones. The air smelled faintly of pine sap and damp earth.
Lucien crouched nearby, striking flint until a spark caught. The tiny flame spread along the brittle twigs he'd gathered, casting a halo of orange around them. For the first time in days, they were alone without the sense of eyes watching from the dark.
Or so it seemed.
---
He sat across from her, the firelight painting his face in warm gold and deep shadow. His eyes lingered on her longer than usual, searching, as if memorizing the way she looked now — tired, soot‑streaked, but still defiant.
"You haven't slept in three nights," he said softly.
She gave a faint, humorless smile. "Neither have you."
"That's different."
"How?"
"I've been trained to keep moving on nothing but rage and bad coffee."
She almost laughed — a real laugh — but it caught in her throat. Her eyes burned with a heat that had nothing to do with the fire.
"You scare me sometimes," she admitted. "Not because of what you've done… but because I'm afraid I'll lose you before any of this ends."
He held her gaze. "And you think I'm not afraid of the same thing?"
---
The silence between them grew thick, electric.
Lucien moved to sit beside her on the fallen trunk. His arm brushed hers, warm even through the chill. Slowly, as if afraid she might pull away, he took her hand. His thumb traced the back of it, a small, steady motion that said more than any vow could.
Her pulse quickened.
She turned to him. "Lucien…"
But the words tangled in her throat. She didn't know if she wanted to tell him she loved him, or tell him she was breaking apart, or simply ask him to hold her until the world stopped moving.
He didn't wait for her to choose. He leaned in, his forehead resting against hers.
"You're here," he murmured. "That's enough."
---
The kiss came like the first breath after drowning.
Slow. Careful. Fierce.
His mouth was warm against hers, tasting faintly of ash and the bitter herbs he'd chewed to keep himself awake. She melted into it, her hands curling into his coat as if to anchor herself.
The fire crackled behind them, the only witness to the way they clung to each other — not just as lovers, but as two souls who had been to the edge of Hell and still found each other in the dark.
When they finally pulled apart, her chest rose and fell with quick, shallow breaths. His eyes were darker than the night.
"I don't care if he's watching," she whispered. "I won't let him take this from us."
Lucien's jaw flexed. "He can watch all he wants. He'll never have what we have."
---
The clearing seemed to shrink around them. The cold outside the fire's reach felt sharper, but neither of them moved.
Lucien brushed a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. "Do you remember the first time we met?"
She almost smiled. "You mean the night you tried to steal my horse?"
He chuckled — the sound rare enough to make her heart ache. "I told you I was borrowing it."
"You also told me your name was not Lucien."
"It wasn't a lie," he said, mock‑serious. "It just wasn't the truth either."
Her smile faded, but not the warmth behind it. "That night feels like it happened to someone else."
"Maybe it did," he said quietly. "Maybe we both died that night and these are just the shadows of who we were."
She shivered. "Don't say that."
---
The fire burned lower. Lucien pulled his coat tighter around them both, his arm settling across her shoulders. She leaned into him, her head against his chest.
His heartbeat was steady. Real. Human.
It was proof against the Devil's whispers — proof that she belonged here, now, in this moment, not in the nightmare waiting just beyond the firelight.
"You should rest," he murmured.
She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. "Will you stay awake?"
"Always."
She hesitated. "Even if I dream of him?"
Lucien's eyes were hard, unflinching. "Especially then."
---
She fell asleep against him, the rise and fall of his breathing carrying her into uneasy dreams.
Somewhere in the dark between waking and sleep, she felt the brush of lips against her hair. A whisper followed — not the Devil's, but Lucien's:
> "You're mine, Isadora. Not his. Never his."
And for a few heartbeats, she believed it without question.
---
But far beyond the clearing, the Devil stood in the shadow of a dead tree, watching the faint orange glow of their fire.
His smile was slow. Patient.
> "You can keep your little reunions," he murmured to the wind.
"Every love story ends. And I write the last page."
End of chapter Twenty-four