They both stood beside each other looking down on Magnus. Still, even when their hearts felt oceans apart, their bodies betrayed them. Their wrists drifted closer on their own accord, drawn as though by invisible threads spun by the Moon Goddess herself.
The faint brush of skin, the electric graze of fingers—it was enough to make Luna's breath hitch, to make Damien's chest tighten with desperate need.
Neither of them dared move further, but neither pulled away either. That single touch was a lifeline and a dagger all at once.
Luna's heart throbbed in her chest, heavy, uneven. She prayed—silently, desperately—that this was all some cruel illusion, a fever dream conjured by dark magic. She wanted him to break the silence, to bend close and whisper that none of it was real, that the council, Isolde, the accusations—every poison between them—was a nightmare.
