The scent reaches a mont later, wrapping around like a second skin. Amber wood. Warm and dark and everywhere.
Moon.
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling closer, eliminating the small space between us. Then I feel it—his lips against my ear, warm breath ghosting over my skin.
"Where are you going?"
His voice is low, teasing, a velvet murmur in the dim hallway.
I don’t argue. I don’t have the strength. The day has drained hollow, left with nothing but exhaustion and the need for silence.
I take a deep breath. Let it out slow.
"Moon." My voice is flat, tired.
"Leave alone."
He doesn’t let go. Instead, he pulls closer still, my back pressing against his chest, his warmth seeping through my clothes. His chin rests on my shoulder.
"How rude," he murmurs, and I can hear the smirk in his voice.
"You’re only worried about that Oga. You’ve completely forgotten about your cousin."
A pause, dripping with theatrical hurt.
"I’m wounded."
I press my fingers to my temple, where a dull ache has taken up permanent residence. My voice cos out cold, clipped.
"From your behavior, instead of worry, I want to punch you."
He laughs—a soft, genuine sound that vibrates through his chest into my back. Then, unexpectedly, he releases .
I step forward, turning to face him. He’s leaning against the wall now, arms crossed, a lazy smile playing on his lips.
The dim light catches the blue of his eyes, makes them gleam like sothing dangerous and beautiful.
"I’d love to fight with you too," he says, his voice dropping.
"But not here."
He pushes off the wall, stepping closer. I don’t move. Don’t give him the satisfaction. My face is a mask of cold fury as I stare him down.
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear again as he whispers, "In your bedroom."
I stay perfectly still.
Inside, a voice is cursing my past self—the idiot who thought blackmailing this lunatic into staying was a brilliant idea.
Finally, I break the silence.
"Let’s talk in the living room."
He blinks. His eyebrow arches, a question dancing in his eyes. That playful smile hasn’t left his lips.
"I thought we were going to your room."
I turn and start walking. Ignoring him completely. My steps are quick, purposeful.
He follows. I can hear his footsteps behind , light and unhurried, and I know without looking that he’s smiling.
This man needs professional help.
The living room wraps around us like a held breath—warm, golden, impossibly still. The lamps cast soft pools of light across the marble floor, but the corners remain in shadow, watching. Waiting.
I sink into the couch, and it swallows whole. My body is lead, my mind static, the exhaustion of the day pressing down like a physical weight.
Across from , on the opposite couch, Moon sits like a panther lounging in the sun. Relaxed. Watching.
The smirk on his lips hasn’t faded since we walked in—a constant, infuriating reminder that he finds all of this amusing.
A servant materializes from the shadows. Silent. Efficient. She pours deep crimson wine into a crystal glass and offers it to Moon.
He takes it, his long fingers curling around the stem, but his eyes—those impossible blue eyes—never leave mine.
She turns to . The glass glints in the light as she extends it.
"Sir?"
I don’t look at it. Don’t look at her.
"No need."
She hesitates—just a fraction of a second, just long enough to register surprise—then bows and retreats, dissolving back into the darkness.
Moon lazily swirls the wine in his glass, watching the liquid catch the light, paint the crystal in shades of ruby. He brings it to his lips, takes a small sip, savoring it. His eyes stay fixed on through the entire performance.
"Why aren’t you drinking?" His voice is casual. Too casual.
"I have no mood."
The playful smile flickers. Fades. He takes another sip—longer this ti, deeper—and sets the glass down on the low table between us. The soft clink echoes in the silence.
"What did you want to talk about?"
His voice is steady now. Almost serious. Almost.
I et his gaze and hold it.
"You already know. The fake rumors. How things spiraled."
I pause, letting the weight of the day settle between us. "The news outlets are silent. The posts are down. I’ve contained it."
My voice tightens. "But your fans—"
The words co harder now. "They’re still throwing harsh words at Angel. New posts. New comnts. New ways to tear him down."
He laughs.
A bright, sudden sound that cuts through the tension like a blade.
I stare at him.
Anger flickers in my chest, hot and sharp. He’s laughing. At a serious situation.
At Angel’s pain. At everything I’ve been fighting to contain.
My voice drops, cold as the winter that’s finally lted.
"Why are you laughing?"
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. The smirk is gone. Replaced by sothing sharper. More focused.
"Why are you so worried about that Oga?"
I cross my arms, frustration bleeding into every word.
"Moon. Why are you stuck on this? I’ve told you a hundred tis. I see him as family. That’s why I care. That’s the only reason. There’s nothing else."
He leans back into the couch. The movent is slow, lazy, deliberate—a predator settling into comfort.
His eyes never leave mine. His voice, when it cos, is calm and asured, each word placed with care.
"Zyren—"
A pause. He lets my na hang in the air between us.
"What about ?"
I blink. The question lands sowhere unexpected, sending ripples through my exhaustion.
"What?"
He tilts his head, studying like I’m a puzzle he’s been trying to solve.
"Aren’t I your family too?"
The words hang in the air, heavy and strange.
Family..?
I stay silent.
What am I supposed to say? What answer does he want? What answer do I have?
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