Page 120 of Shifting Hearts 1
If he’s come to leave me again, I’d rather not see the look in his eyes when he does it. But he doesn’t stop at the door, no, he walks right in.
“Say something,” he says softly.
I close my book. The same one I’ve been trying to read for three weeks and failing every single night. “You left.” There is no anger in my words because I’m not angry. I’m hurt and disappointed.
“I had to.”
“No, Lucian. You chose to.” This time, it is an accusation.
The silence between us sharpens.
Then he says, “I gave up everything.”
I glance at him. He’s not the same man who walked away. He looks… hunted. Hallowed out. Like the war he started burned something sacred from him.
“What do you mean?”
“I walked into the Council’s keep with a blood-oath on my tongue and a blade in my hand.” His voice is low. Dangerous. “I told them I’d never serve again. That their laws meant nothing to me.”
“And they let you live?”
He laughs. A rough, joyless sound. “They tried to kill me. I left their keep burning behind me.”
My breath catches. “Lucian…”
“I burned my old life down for you.” He steps closer. “And if you don’t want me, if you can’t forgive me for leaving… I’ll walk away again.”
I finally stand. “I don’t want an apology.”
He blinks. “I want your word,” I whisper, stepping into him. “That you won’t ever run again.”
Something akin to hope flashes in his gaze. “I’m not running.”
“You did. Twice now, you’ve left me behind.”
“I know.” His jaw flexes. “But I came back. That has to count for something.”
“It does but I need to know it won’t ever happen again,” I say softly.
His mouth finds mine like it never left. No hesitation. No fear. Just us, fire and smoke and something too deep to name. I strip him bare with shaking hands. He worships every inch of me like he’s relearning his way home. His lips caress my skin before finding a nipple and laving it.
And when he finally pushes into me, I feel our bond snap into place like it was always meant to be. No more doubt and no more fear.
Only us. Wolf and witch. Fated. Chosen. Forever.
Later, when we lie in a tangled mess of sheets and magic, he props himself on one elbow and looks at me like I’m the only thing keeping him breathing.
“You know,” he murmurs, “we could do something with this whole murder-solving, rule-breaking thing.”
I arch a brow. “What are you proposing?”
He smirks. “A detective agency.”
“A what?”
“You’re a psychic witch and I’m a hunter. Seems like a natural fit.”
I laugh, but the thought settles warm in my chest.
