Lucien pressed a kiss to her knuckles. Her hand trembled lightly in his, but she didn't pull away.
Seraphine stood still, breath soft and shallow, her eyes wide as if she couldn't believe he was real. Around them, the quiet of the library felt like it had folded inward—books watching, shadows listening.
"You're always so warm," she whispered.
Lucien looked at her, his fingers still gently curled around hers. "And you're always cold."
She gave a faint smile, but there was something flickering in her eyes—something unspoken, raw. She turned her head slightly, and Lucien used that moment to draw her closer. His free hand found her waist, and she didn't resist when he pulled her in, not even when his lips hovered near hers.
Her breath caught.
"This isn't a lie," Lucien murmured. "Not tonight."
Seraphine didn't ask what he meant. She just closed the space between them, her lips brushing his. The kiss was soft at first—like a question. Then it deepened, and her fingers tangled in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him in.
He pressed her back against the nearest bookshelf, his mouth hungry now, as if he'd been waiting for this far longer than he cared to admit. She gasped against his lips when his hands slid over her waist, her hips, her back.
Books shifted and thudded quietly to the floor as he lifted her with surprising care, settling her on the low window bench. Moonlight caught the pale slip of her nightdress, illuminating her like something ethereal—something his hands weren't worthy of touching.
Still, he did.
He trailed kisses along her jaw, down her throat, along her collarbone. "Tell me to stop," he whispered, but he was already kissing lower, tugging the straps of her gown from her shoulders.
"I won't," she breathed. "Don't stop."
He laid her back gently. Their bodies met like puzzle pieces, his shirt discarded, her nightdress slipping down her thighs. She arched into him, every touch grounding her in a world that only existed between them.
Lucien kissed her like she mattered. Not for secrets. Not for power.
Just for her.
She whispered his name over and over, like a spell she never wanted to end.
He held her hips, pressing into her with reverence, his movements slow, deep, purposeful—his forehead pressed to hers as he breathed, "Seraph…"
She clung to him, nails dragging down his back, lost in everything she had ever longed for.
They moved together like music no one else could hear—quiet, aching, tender.
After, she lay curled against him, eyes closed, cheeks flushed. Lucien held her tightly, tracing his fingers along her arm, brushing her hair back from her face.
And for the first time since he entered the Glass Tomb, he didn't think about what lay beyond its walls.
Only her.
Only now.
Only truth.
The silence stretched, warm and full between them.
Lucien traced her spine slowly, his fingers gentle, thoughtful. Seraphine rested with her head against his chest, her lips brushing his skin as she breathed. Every breath she took felt like a promise, every heartbeat between them something sacred.
But then she moved.
Shifted.
Climbed over him again, her legs straddling his waist, the moonlight pouring behind her like a halo. Lucien looked up, his breath catching—not from surprise, but from the sheer sight of her. Her hair fell in soft waves around her face, eyes still glazed with everything they'd just shared, and yet... hungry for more.
"Do you want more?" she whispered, her voice fragile but laced with heat.
Lucien didn't answer. He sat up suddenly, cupping her face in both hands and kissing her—fierce, demanding. She gasped as he grabbed her thighs, rolling them so she was beneath him again, pinned, owned.
His mouth moved from her lips to her neck, to her chest, to every inch of skin he could find. Seraphine arched beneath him, nails digging into his back as her breath caught in little desperate sounds that only spurred him further.
"I want to feel you again," she murmured, "deeper."
Lucien grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head, eyes dark with something primal. "Say you want me."
"I do," she gasped. "Only you."
With that, he sank into her again, slower this time—deeper, rougher. Their bodies tangled, rhythm turning raw. Her legs locked around his waist as he drove into her, every thrust full of the tension they both carried—lust and love, confusion and obsession, all bleeding together.
She cried out, clutching him tightly, as if she was afraid he'd vanish if she let go.
Lucien kissed her like a sinner begging for mercy.
Again and again.
They didn't speak, not with words. Just gasps. Moans. Fingertips digging into skin. Kisses that bruised.
When it was over, again, she lay draped across him—sweat-slicked, flushed, trembling. He ran a hand down her back, calming the shiver that ran through her.
"You're mine now," she whispered, voice cracked and low. "Forever."
Lucien didn't respond.
He only held her tighter.
Because right now… he didn't know if that terrified him, or if part of him wanted it too.