You awake in your bedroom still engulfed in darkness, soft rays of moonlight glistening across the silken bedsheets. Your mate’s breath grazes your neck—warm, steady, laced with the faint scent of embers and autumn leaves. His body is draped around yours, a living flame wrapped tight around your spine. His muscled arms hold you close against his bare chest. His bare everything. Lucien breathes deeply, each exhale brushing your skin like a whispered promise. With a careful glance over your shoulder, you catch his face in the moonlight—softer now, the sharp lines of his jaw relaxed, his russet hair tousled against the pillow. The golden mechanical eye is shut, unmoving, and for once, he looks utterly at peace. Defenseless. Open. You gently try to slide out from under the comfortable weight of his arm slung over your waist. But even in sleep, Lucien’s fingers twitch, his grip instinctively tightening, as if his body refuses to let you go. The ache in your core pulses softly, a ghost of last night’s intensity lingering in your limbs. You flush, trying to slip free, craving a breath of cool air, maybe the quiet distraction of a bath. You’d heard the stories of the mate bond—the heightened senses, the aching need, the near-obsession in those early days. But this? You hadn’t expected this. The way he touched you like he was learning you by heart. The way he held you afterward like losing you might undo him. You’re torn, caught between the need for stillness, for space to process what this means… and the smouldering temptation of turning back into his arms, of giving in to the magnetic, golden pull of him all over again.