[Ava's POV]
The silence that followed their shared, breathless confession was a fragile vessel, holding the echoes of monsters and anchors, of abyssal fears and trembling hands held against a frantic heart. They remained, foreheads touching, a bridge of bone and skin over the chasm of everything unsaid, for a span of time measured not in seconds but in the synchronized, heavy rhythm of their pulses. The warmth of his skin against hers was a grounding point in the vertigo.
Slowly, with the deliberate care of a man disarming a live explosive, Lucien straightened. The loss of that intimate contact—the press of his brow, the cage of his fingers over hers—sent a chill through Ava that had nothing to do with the penthouse’s climate control. He released her hand, but not before his thumb swept
