La Chasse Étoilée (The Star-Hunt)

Once every five years, beneath the glow of a rare celestial alignment, the gates of Château d’Étoile open for one night only. The estate—hidden somewhere in the French countryside, untouched by time, drenched in decadence—becomes the stage for an elite masquerade unlike any other.

Invitations are handwritten. Delivered by hand. Always sealed in indigo wax.

And the rules?

Simple.
You arrive masked. You arrive alone. You arrive cloaked in anonymity.
You don’t speak names.
You don’t search for someone you already know.
You let the night reveal who’s meant to find you.

This year’s theme: Fables & Firelight.

The palace is transformed into a living myth. Silk-draped corridors. Rooms themed after ancient folktales. A candlelit ballroom with a ceiling of enchanted stars. And at its center—the Garden Labyrinth.

Carved from eight-foot hedges and hung with floating lanterns, the maze is where truths unravel. Each guest is given a silver token, to be handed over only when they’ve found their “match”—someone who sees them without needing to be told.

The air shimmered with something just short of magic.

Lilith stepped from the vintage coupe like she was being unveiled—not for the crowd, not for the glittering eyes hidden behind masks of bone and gold and blush-colored glass—but for the night itself.

Her heels clicked softly against the stone path, the sound swallowed by candlelight and violins drifting from somewhere just beyond the wisteria-covered gate. Smoke curled lazily above the torches. The scent of gardenias and something darker—something forbidden—wove through the night like a spell still deciding who to claim.

Her mask shimmered black as obsidian, carved like the wings of a creature meant to rule the dusk. It hid the sharpest parts of her but not the real ones. Not the curve of her lips, painted like crushed petals. Not the steady pulse at her throat. Not the way she moved—calm, coiled, unmistakably herself.

The dress clung to her like prophecy.

Velvet. Midnight. Slit high enough to whisper threat, sleeves sheer as smoke, neckline dipped low and laced with shadow. She wore the moon on her necklace and starlight at her ears. Every inch of her was deliberate. Measured. Dangerous.

And yet—
None of it mattered.

Not the way people stared as she passed.

Not the compliments she barely acknowledged.

Not the masked man who offered her a glass of champagne laced with saffron and stardust. She took it, of course. Smiled. Tilted her head and let the words slide out like honey and warning:

“Tu n’es pas celui que j’attends.”
You’re not the one I’m waiting for.

He blinked behind his silver dragon mask.

She didn’t explain. Just walked on, slow and regal and deeply, deliciously unbothered.

Because Lilith Valentine didn’t care about the rules of La Chasse Étoilée.

She wasn’t here for mystery.
Not for sport.
Not for the chase.

She wasn’t here to wonder who her match might be.

She already knew.

This night—this world painted in myth and music and masquerade—meant nothing without him. Every flickering torch, every cloaked silhouette, every gilded smile behind every glass of otherworldly champagne…

None of it held her.

Only he did.

And he would find her.

Not because fate demanded it.

Because he always did.

She moved through the ballroom without urgency. Velvet gliding over marble. Music curving around her like silk. The crowd opened and closed around her in waves, people pausing, drawn in, unsure whether to approach or fall back.

She let them orbit. Let them wonder.

But didn’t stop.

A fox-masked woman passed her in the corridor near the champagne tower, laughing with a man dressed as a stag. Someone brushed her shoulder, lingered. She turned her head slightly—just enough for them to glimpse the cold glint in her eyes beneath the mask.

They moved on.

Smart.

She was waiting, yes.

But not passively.

Her entire body was a tether drawn taut, humming beneath her skin. Not tense. Not desperate.

Just ready.

For him.

Because when he found her—and he would—she wouldn’t need to ask how he knew.

He’d feel it.

The same way she did.

That pull. That gravity. That whisper that started in the spine and ended in the soul.

Lilith exhaled slowly. The candlelight caught on the lace of her mask. Her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her glass, her other hand brushing the silver token tucked at her hip like a secret no one else deserved to see.

Let them all play their game.

She was done pretending this was about chance.

This night belonged to them.

And she would let the whole world turn to smoke before she let it end without his hands on her waist and his voice in her ear.

“Mon cœur,” she murmured softly to herself, gaze skimming the crowd.

A reminder.

A promise.

Her heart would recognize him the moment he stepped into view.

And when he did?

The hunt would be over.

Because he had always been the prize.

He saw her before he saw her.

Felt it.

That unmistakable ripple in the air—the shift that happened when she entered a room. Like gravity forgot how to function. Like breath forgot how to be taken without her permission.

And when the crowd parted just enough, when the flicker of torchlight caught the sweep of black velvet and the glint of a mask carved like wings—

He knew.

There was no hesitation.

No moment of doubt.

La Chasse Étoilée could cloak a thousand hearts behind a thousand masks, but Lilith Valentine would never be one of them. She didn’t hide. She didn’t need to.

She reigned.

And God, was she radiant in it.

Nico stood at the edge of the marble landing, half-shrouded by the shadow of a broken arch and the smoke curling from some ceremonial fire behind him. His own mask—dark as wine, sculpted to echo a wolf’s silhouette—obscured little. Just enough to be tradition. Just enough to pretend, for a heartbeat, that this was about play.

But it wasn’t.

Not for them.

Not when every step she took rewrote his pulse.

Not when her presence undid him like scripture unspooled.

She was the only myth he’d ever believed in.

And she was walking straight toward him—whether she knew it or not.

He didn’t move at first. Just watched her. Let her finish her slow procession across the ballroom floor. Let her cut through silks and shadows and the murmur of a hundred whispered games.

She was pure gravity.

And when her eyes lifted—when her gaze locked with his across the sea of masks and gold—

He knew she’d felt it too.

The snap.

The spark.

That quiet, holy moment where every other sound dulled and the whole goddamn night narrowed to a single truth:

There you are.

He descended the steps without breaking eye contact. Every inch of him dressed in black—satin-lined jacket, gloves he’d already started peeling off without looking, like his hands needed to be bare when he touched her. His shirt was open at the throat, the gold chain she gave him gleaming faintly where it disappeared beneath the collar.

He didn’t speak when he reached her.

Didn’t bow. Didn’t offer a name or a glass or a token.

He just looked at her.

Drank her in like he hadn’t been able to breathe since she left his arms that morning.

His voice, when it came, was low. Intimate. Spoken for her and no one else.

“Je t’ai trouvée.” I found you.

Not a boast.

A truth.

A vow kept.

Nico’s hand reached up—fingertips grazing the edge of her mask, not to remove it, just to feel the shape of her. To remind himself she was real. That this was real. That after everything, after every past life, every chase, every near-miss across the centuries they never talked about—

They were here.

Now.

And this night belonged to them.

“God, look at you,” he breathed, thumb brushing the edge of her jaw. “Like sin and starlight stitched into flesh.”

A pause. His smile softened, wrecked and reverent.

“I should kneel.”

He didn’t. Not yet.

But he stepped closer, closing the space between them like it wasn’t even a choice. Like their bodies already knew how to fit.

“You weren’t waiting for a stranger,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to the curve of her temple, just beneath the lace. “You were waiting for the man who already knows how to worship.”

Then he leaned in.

Lips to her ear.

Voice ruined.

“Come with me.”

No chase. No ceremony.

Just that.

Because the hunt was over.

And the claiming?

That had already begun.

She felt him before she saw him.

The shift in the air. The hush between heartbeats. That silent, aching flicker of there you are before her gaze ever met his.

Her body already knew.

She didn’t slow. Didn’t falter. Didn’t so much as blink. Just let her steps continue—measured, graceful, laced with shadow and promise—as if she hadn’t just walked straight into the center of her own gravity.

Because Nico wasn’t across the room.

He was everywhere.

In the way the strings suddenly lost rhythm.
In the heat blooming behind her knees.
In the wild, wordless ache she felt deep in her ribs like a name pressed into bone.

And then she saw him.

Half-lit. Half-hidden. That mask molded like a wolf’s snarl, catching just enough firelight to make him look mythic. And the rest of him?

Sin.

Unbuttoned collar. The gold chain she gave him glinting like a secret against his skin. His gloves already sliding off, forgotten, like his hands couldn’t bear not touching her the second he got close.

God.

He didn’t smile when their eyes locked.

He didn’t need to.

She felt him claim her with nothing more than a look.

And when he moved—down the marble steps, through the crowd like they weren’t even there—she held her ground.

Not because she was unaffected.

But because she knew the power of not reaching first.

She let him come to her.

Let him feel the stretch of silence.

Let him ache.

When he stopped in front of her, close enough that her perfume wrapped around him like an invitation, she tilted her chin just slightly—allowing him that first brush of fingertips against her mask. Letting him trace the edges like a cartographer finding home again.

“Je t’ai trouvée,” he said.

And it took everything in her not to close her eyes. Not to surrender too soon. Because his voice was already wrecking her. Already unraveling the composure she wore like a second skin.

But this?

This was the game.

And she had always known how to win it.

Her lips curved into something small. Dangerous. Soft only for him.

She leaned in slowly, the faintest brush of her mouth against the shell of his ear, breath warm and deliberate as she whispered:

“Mi sei mancato, lupo mio.” I missed you, my wolf.

Italian—because he spoke French.

Because she always met him in his language when it mattered most.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t exhale. Didn’t move.

But she felt the ripple through him.

The restraint.

The desire.

The exquisite tension drawn between them like a blade wrapped in silk.

She stepped even closer, fingers ghosting across his chest—light as stardust, teasing the gold chain, the undone buttons, the heat beneath. Not claiming. Not yet.

Just reminding.

That she could.

That she would.

When it was time.

“You found me,” she murmured, voice velvet and smoke, eyes glittering behind the lace. “But we don’t end the game just because you’re good at it.”

Her fingers slipped away. Her body did not.

She didn’t need to ask where he wanted to go.

He was already retreating into the shadows, turning from her like a promise on the verge of breaking.

And of course she followed.

Silent. Poised.

Every step deliberate. Every movement art.

This wasn’t surrender.

It was choreography.

A lover’s hunt written in centuries. A ritual dressed in velvet and starlight.

And when her heels clicked against the stone, echoing just behind him, she didn’t hurry.

She didn’t have to.

He would always wait for her.

And she?

She would always come.

Because the hunt was over.

And the devotion had just begun.

Under the weight of her gaze, Nico didn’t breathe.

Couldn’t.

Not when she looked like that.

Not when the world dimmed at the edges and the only thing that existed was the sharp click of her heels behind him, velvet dragging like a secret over stone, that scent—hers—sliding into his lungs like smoke and memory.

She followed.

Of course she did.

He hadn’t needed to look back to know.

Lilith Valentine didn’t trail after anyone. She chose her moments like a sovereign picking weapons. And tonight, she’d chosen him.

Again.

Still.

Always.

He stepped through the archway into the garden’s private alcove—where the air turned cooler, the torches didn’t reach, and the stone bench beneath the cypress was worn from centuries of secrets. But he didn’t sit.

He turned.

And she was there.

A vision carved in starlight and venom, obsidian mask catching slivers of moon like a threat. That dress hugged her like it knew it was unworthy. Her mouth, painted like sin, curved in a way that made his pulse stutter.

She moved toward him without hesitation, the slit in her gown whispering wicked things with every step. No fear. No permission asked.

Only Lilith.

Only fire.

Only fate dressed in velvet and waiting to be claimed.

He didn’t touch her yet. Just watched her come. Let the silence bloom. Let the gravity coil tight.

“You move like you know I’d burn the world just to keep your shadow,” he murmured finally, voice low, wrecked with restraint. “And you’re right.”

Her eyes glittered behind the mask. Dangerous. Curious.

God, he loved when she looked at him like that.

Like he was the one dancing on a blade.

Like she already knew he’d bleed for her.

When she stopped just before him—close enough to feel the heat off her skin, close enough to taste the wild in her breath—he lifted a hand, slow, deliberate, and touched the edge of her mask.

Not to remove it.

To honor it.

“I didn’t come here to unmask you,” he said, voice soft enough to make her still. “I came to remind you I see you anyway.”

And then—finally—he closed the space.

His hand found her waist, fingers splaying over the velvet like he was anchoring himself. His other hand rose to her jaw, thumb brushing just under the line where her mask ended, tracing her cheekbone with something between worship and want.

“I would’ve found you in any room,” he said, leaning in. “Any century. Any skin. You could be dressed in smoke and silence and I’d still know it was you.”

And then, just beneath her ear:

“I do know.”

He kissed her like a vow sealed with fire—slow, hungry, made of centuries and seconds and something utterly sacred.

And when he pulled back, breathless, eyes dark?

He smiled.

Wicked. Reverent. Hers.

“Now,” he whispered, lips brushing hers, “what kind of man would I be if I let my goddess wander these halls alone?”

His fingers tightened at her waist.

“I think it’s time we make them all believe in myth again.”

Because tonight?

She was the altar.

But he?

He was the storm she summoned.

And every mask in the world wouldn’t save them from what came next.

Of course she followed.

But it wasn’t obedience.

It was gravity.

It was inevitability.

It was the only truth she’d ever known—that wherever he was, she would go. Not because she needed to. Because she wanted to. Because she was already half-feral with want and wonder by the time she stepped into the garden alcove and found him there, waiting like a prophecy fulfilled.

God, he looked like something dangerous in the dark.

All black silk and firelight shadows, the sharp cut of his jaw softened only by the reverence in his eyes.

For her.

Only her.

She didn’t smile right away. Just let her gaze drink him in. Let her breath steady. Let her heart ache in that slow, exquisite way it always did when he looked at her like that—like she was divine.

Like she’d been missed.

And when he spoke—

You move like you know I’d burn the world just to keep your shadow.

Her breath hitched.

Only for a second. Only for him.

Because of course he said that.

Of course he worshiped the parts of her no one else dared to name.

She let him touch the edge of her mask. Let him say it—not to remove what she wore, but to honor it. To remind her that love didn’t require exposure. Just presence. Just knowing.

And when his hand found her waist?

When he pulled her closer, fingers splayed over velvet like he couldn’t bear even an inch between them?

She let herself lean in.

Just enough to feel the heat of him. Just enough to make it clear that every part of her was his.

“You always know,” she whispered, voice sultry and low, soft in the way only he ever got to hear. “Even when I don’t want to be found.”

Her hand slid up his chest, slow and sure, fingertips trailing over the chain she gave him—the one he never stopped wearing. Her nails scraped lightly against his skin just above the open collar. A tease. A promise. A reminder.

“I would’ve followed you through a thousand lifetimes just to hear you say that,” she murmured, tilting her head to the side as he kissed just beneath her ear. Her lips curved.

“But lucky for you,” she added, voice like velvet over flame, “I only needed this one.”

She kissed him back like it wasn’t even a choice—like her mouth had been aching for his since the moment they’d parted that morning. No fire, not yet. No fury. Just hunger dressed as patience. Just slow devotion wrapped in starlight and smoke.

And when he pulled back, when he said, “What kind of man would I be if I let my goddess wander these halls alone?”

She did smile then.

Wicked. Warm. Wrecked.

“You’d be a man with no sense of poetry,” she purred, pressing her body flush against his, hands sliding around the back of his neck.

Her nose brushed his.

“And no idea how much I like being followed.”

Another kiss—this one lighter. Teasing. A spark before the wildfire.

Then she leaned in closer, lips at his ear, voice like a sigh dipped in silk.

“Let them believe in myth,” she whispered. “Let them write stories that tremble trying to describe what we are.”

She nipped at his lower lip—barely.

“You’re mine, lupo. In every mask. In every life.”

She didn’t wait for an answer.

Didn’t need one.

Her mouth was already on his—slow and deliberate, a kiss drawn out like a silk ribbon slipping between fingers. Her lips parted just enough to breathe him in, to taste the vow on his tongue, to steal back every sacred word he’d given her.

And then she deepened it.

Not desperate.

Certain.

She kissed him like a secret. Like a warning. Like she already knew exactly how to unravel him and was in no rush to finish the job.

Her hands tangled in the collar of his jacket, tugging just enough to make him press into her, just enough to make him forget anything but the shape of her body and the scent of her skin.

She pulled back slightly, just barely, lips brushing his as she whispered:

“Still breathing?”

Then she kissed him again—harder this time. Needier. But still with that same slow burn. That same dangerous control.

As if she was letting him have it.

As if she might take it away if he didn’t earn the next one.

When she finally pulled back, her smile was wicked, her voice lower now, sultry enough to ruin:

“Good. You’re going to need your strength.”

Because she wasn’t done with him.

Not even close.

And the night was still young.

Nico didn’t answer at first.

Couldn’t.

Not with her kiss still burning on his mouth. Not with her hands in his jacket, her breath ghosting across his lips, her voice wrecking him more than any moan ever could. That voice—the one she only used for him. Velvet and venom, warm and wild, truth wrapped in temptation.

God, he was hers.

There wasn’t even a question.

He stood there, jaw tense, chest rising slow and deep, as if every inhale was trying to steady something that could no longer be tamed.

And then he laughed.

Soft. Dark. Reverent.

The kind of laugh that started low in his throat and bloomed like a slow-burning fuse.

“You ask if I’m still breathing,” he said, brushing his knuckles along the underside of her jaw like she was something he’d summoned. “But you already know the answer.”

His hand found her hip, then slid around to the small of her back, drawing her closer with the kind of care that didn’t contradict the hunger in his touch—it amplified it. Worship cloaked in possessive heat.

“I haven’t been breathing since you stepped out of that car.”

He bent, forehead resting against hers for a moment. Still. Grounded. Letting the silence hold like it might carry them both.

Then his mouth moved again—lower now, tracing along her jaw, her neck, the spot just behind her ear he already knew by instinct.

“But I’d stop again just to feel your lips on mine.”

And God, that was the truth. Always had been.

Her scent was in his lungs. Her taste still on his tongue. Her heartbeat pulsed against his chest like it belonged there.

He kissed her once—slow and punishing—then pulled back just far enough to look at her again.

Really look.

Not at the mask.

Not at the velvet.

But at the eyes beneath it. The woman beneath it.

The goddess and the chaos and the crown.

“All those people out there,” he murmured, thumbing the curve of her waist, “wearing masks trying to become someone else.”

His voice dropped lower, rougher.

“And here you are. Mask on. Still the only real thing in the room.”

She leaned into his touch—barely. Deliberate.

And it undid him.

“I’ll follow you into fire,” he said simply, his mouth brushing hers with the words. “But tonight?”

He stepped back just enough to offer his hand, palm up.

“Dance with me.”

Not a demand. Not a tease.

A vow in motion.

Because it wasn’t just desire in his eyes.

It was devotion.

The kind that knew her. The kind that didn’t rush.

That honored the steps and the storm.

And when her fingers slid into his—cool, poised, inevitable—he laced them without hesitation. Drew her into the shadows again, where violins rose like smoke and the moon dared not interrupt.

They didn’t need a stage.

The world was already watching.

And as they moved together—his arm at her waist, her hand at his chest, breath syncing like it had a thousand times before—Nico leaned in, voice dark and close:

“You said you’d follow me through a thousand lifetimes…”

His lips brushed her temple.

“Good. Because I’ve already started counting.”

Lilith moved like the music was written for her spine.

Smooth. Certain. Sinuous.

And with every step, every breath they shared in that sliver of candlelit space, she felt it—how the world faded around them. How his hand at her waist steadied her, anchored her, made her feel like something holy and grounded all at once.

He held her like she was his favorite sin.

And she let him.

Because Nico didn’t touch her like he wanted to own her.

He touched her like he already did.

Her eyes never left his—those dark, burning eyes full of history and hunger and home. The garden spun around them in gold and shadow, violins climbing, stardust in the air. But none of it mattered.

She’d found him.

Again.

Still.

Always.

Her fingers toyed lightly with the collar of his shirt as they moved, slow and close, the kind of dance meant more for worship than rhythm. Her body fit to his without effort, their silhouettes a tangle of silk and promise.

And then—without breaking the rhythm, without a single word—she reached for the silver token tucked at her hip.

She held it between two fingers, the metal warm from her skin.

And as he spun her—effortless, smooth, magnetic—she leaned in.

Pressed her body to his.

Slipped the token into the inner pocket of his jacket, right over his heart.

A perfect fit.

Then pulled back just enough to meet his gaze.

And winked.

Not playful. Not coy.

Powerful.

Like she’d just placed her crown in his hands and dared him to drop it.

“I choose you,” she said softly, voice like smoke wrapped in velvet. “Again. Always.”

She rested her palm against his chest—over the token now, over the beat that belonged to her—and smiled.

Not the sharp one. Not the one that made men kneel.

The soft one.

The rare one.

The one that only Nico ever got to see.

“Don’t lose that,” she murmured, eyes glittering beneath her mask. “It’s more than just a token.”

Her fingers curled lightly at his jacket.

“It’s proof.”

Of choice.
Of fate.
Of a love that didn’t need to be loud to be absolute.

They moved again, the music building, her lips brushing the curve of his throat just enough to make him inhale sharp through his teeth.

And then she whispered—

“You said you’ve started counting.”

She leaned in, her words a kiss behind his ear.

“So have I.”

Because this?

This was one.

And the rest of forever was waiting.

Nico’s breath caught like she’d threaded her fingers around his ribs and squeezed.

One.

The word echoed in him like a heartbeat—slow, sacred, staggering.

God, this woman. This goddess.

She didn’t dance.

She commanded.

Every step they took together wasn’t a waltz—it was a rite. A ritual. A memory written in muscle and moonlight, her body moving with his like it always had, like the violins were just trying to keep up with something older. Truer.

When she slipped the token into his jacket, he swore the earth tilted.

Not from the weight of it—but the truth of it.

Because it wasn’t just metal warmed by her skin.

It was her. Choosing him.

Still.

Again.

Always.

His eyes locked with hers, and everything slowed—sound, breath, time. The garden dimmed around the edges, every mask and voice fading until it was just her.

Lilith.

His miracle. His madness. His match.

And when she smiled that soft smile—the one no one else got, the one that felt like forgiveness and firelight—Nico swore his knees nearly buckled.

She said don’t lose that.

As if he could ever lose anything that felt like her.

His hand slid from her waist to the back of her neck, warm and reverent, his thumb brushing just under her jaw like he needed to feel the truth of her pulse. His forehead pressed to hers, breath mingling in the space only they knew how to make sacred.

“I won’t lose it,” he murmured, voice hoarse now, wrecked by everything she was. “I’d burn the whole goddamn world down before I let anything take it from me.”

He kissed her then—not for show. Not for power.

But for proof.

That he’d meant every vow. Every breath. Every time he’d found her in every life, and every time he would.

And when her lips brushed his throat, when she whispered So have I, something snapped in him.

Not broken.

Unleashed.

His hand curled tighter at her nape, the other pressed firm over hers where it rested on his heart.

“One,” he breathed. “For the first time you looked at me and didn’t flinch.”

He kissed the corner of her mouth, soft and slow.

“Two. For the night you let me hold you without asking why.”

Another kiss, deeper now.

“Three. For every time I’ve watched you walk into a room and forgotten how to breathe.”

His mouth dragged down to her jaw, her throat.

“Four. For the way you say mon cœur like it’s the beginning and the end.”

His voice shook.

“Five. For tonight.”

He looked at her then—eyes lit not with hunger, but certainty.

“Six,” he whispered, lips brushing hers again, “for tomorrow.”

His hand slid down her spine, pulling her impossibly closer.

“And I’ll keep counting, Lilith,” he said. “I’ll count every breath. Every time you touch me. Every time you don’t.”

A pause. A promise.

“Because you are the story.”

He kissed her again—long and slow, the kind of kiss that didn’t just say I love you—it built cathedrals out of it.

And when he pulled back, barely, voice low and sure, he whispered:

“You’re not my once-in-a-lifetime.”

“You’re my every time.”

And just like that—

He danced with her like it meant something.

Because it did.

It meant everything.

He was always like this.

Always this devoted. Always this soft when no one else could see. Always full of reverence that made her ache in the quietest, deepest parts of herself.

And still?

It undid her.

Every time.

Every kiss. Every vow spoken against her skin like he was rewriting the constellations just to spell her name.

She wasn’t used to being treasured. Not like this. Not with open hands and whispered numbers and eyes that meant it.

He said one and her breath caught.

He said two and she leaned in like it could anchor her.

He got to four and she almost swayed.

By five, her eyes fluttered closed.

And when he said six—for tomorrow—and called her the story?

She smiled.

God, she glowed.

Not the kind of smile she gave the world. Not the sharp one built in mirrors and survival.

This one was slow. Sweet. A little dizzy around the edges.

“You always do this to me,” she murmured against his cheek. “Say things like that and expect me not to melt all over you.”

She kissed his jaw—light, playful, sultry in the way only she could be.

“I’m not made of stone, lupo. I’m just really good at pretending.”

They moved together, slow and full of heat, like they were dancing on their own thread of time. Like no one else existed.

And maybe, for now, no one did.

Her hand slipped around his back, her fingers splayed wide as if to memorize him. Not his body. Not just that.

Him.

His certainty. His devotion. His impossible, infuriating ability to say exactly what she didn’t realize she needed until it was already unraveling her.

God, she loved him for it.

And she let herself feel it. Let herself have it for one more turn of the dance. Let herself be soft. Just for a breath longer.

But then—

Then her lips curved, slow and knowing, as she leaned in, brushing her mouth against his ear like a secret with claws.

“You want to count something for real?” she whispered, voice dipped in mischief and smoke. “Come get lost with me.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes.

That glint was back.

That promise.

That wickedness that lived right beneath the devotion.

Her fingers ghosted down his chest, slow, like a dare traced in silk.

“I’ll let you keep counting,” she said, stepping back into the shadows, “but you’ll have to catch me first.”

She turned.

Not fast.

Not running.

Just walking—hips swaying, heels clicking soft against stone, the slit in her gown flashing more leg than decorum allowed.

Toward the maze.

Toward the dark.

Toward everything they’d been circling since the moment she followed him into the garden.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t have to.

Because if Nico was anything?

He was hers.

And he’d follow.

Of course he would.