Lucien.
I was there, in her room.
I stood near the window, watching the city. The street lay quiet.
Behind me, Amara slept.
Her dreams pulled at me through the bond like a slow tide. Every shift of her body sent a response through mine—tightening, restraining, grinding control against instinct.
I moved closer to the bed, careful not to wake her up. She lay on her side, brow faintly furrowed, lips parted as if she were on the edge of waking. One hand was curled near her throat, fingers flexing slightly with each uneven breath.
She was dreaming again.
I could feel it.
I knelt beside the bed, lowering myself to her level, close enough to smell her skin—warm, human, maddeningly alive. My restraint stretched thin as a wire.
“Amara,” I whispered.
Her breathing stuttered. Her body shif
