Reiya’s gaze shifted to the doors, where moonlight filtered through the glass, streaking silver across the marble floor. Beyond them lay the formal garden, cool and quiet in the embrace of night.
“Thank you,” she murmured, already turning away.
She made it halfway there when Lucen, leaning lazily against the window frame, tilted his head. His grin was too sharp to be friendly.
“Let our angel down easy, won’t you, Princess? You know how fragile his heart is.”
Something in his tone prickled at her nape—mockery or warning, subtle enough to leave her guessing.
Draven, standing stiffly with arms crossed, spoke without looking at her. Among the four, he alone had dark hair instead of copper. His voice was low, edged with something unreadable, like disappointment wrapped in civility. “He doesn’t recover the way the rest of us do.”
Her steps stilled. She didn’t reply, didn’t turn back, only held her gaze on the terrace doors. She could see their reflections in the window—watching her, judging her. Whatever awaited her in the garden, the brothers wanted her to feel their scrutiny.
She stepped outside, the cool night air grazing her skin, a welcome contrast to the ballroom’s stifling warmth. Her lungs expanded gratefully, filling with the crisp scent of jasmine and damp earth, untainted by the cloying haze of Alpha pheromones.
Moonlight spilled across the stone steps, lanterns flickering patterns along the garden paths. Beyond the hedges—meticulously pruned into the shapes of conches and clamshells—the distant strains of music faded, leaving only rustling leaves and her own uneven breaths.
She crossed the garden swiftly to the rose-draped pavilion—their place of refuge, where stolen moments had unfolded time and time again.
There, she found him.
Shadowed and still, his copper hair caught the moonlight like burnished gold. Standing there, he seemed part of the night—silent, waiting—until a branch cracked beneath her step.
He turned, eyes widening as their gazes collided.
Her heart lurched. Tender aches bloomed in her chest—soft, fragile, but no less real.
What was this feeling, if not love?
“Castiel.” Reiya hurried up the pavilion steps. “Take me with you.”
He blinked, as if the words were foreign. “Pardon me?”
“When you leave tonight, take me with you,” she repeated, steadier now.
The words settled between them, weighted and irreversible, yet she felt no regret. Maybe it was foolish, reckless, but the thought of staying—of waking to a world where Castiel had gone without her—felt far heavier than the weight of running.
For a beat, he said nothing, his unblinking gaze locked on hers. His jaw eased, lips parting slightly.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low and rough, as though the question cost him. “You’d leave it all? Your family, your birthright?”
She stepped forward. “I’d leave it all, if it meant freedom with you.”
His throat worked. She saw the hesitation, the war between desire and duty in his eyes, the tick of his jaw.
“Do you understand what you’re asking? If you come with me, you’ll be mine—entirely.”
She reached for his hand. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
Castiel cupped her face, his touch reverent yet trembling with urgency. Before she could think—before regret had a chance to surface—his lips claimed hers. His kiss crashed over her, raw and unrelenting, pulling her under like driftwood in a storm.
For a moment, she let it sweep her away. Doubt, expectation, duty—everything dissolved in the warmth of his arms, familiar and anchoring. She clung to him, as if their tangled breaths could shield her from everything beyond.
This. This was the answer she’d been chasing. In his embrace, freedom felt within reach.
But then, something flickered beneath the surface. A ripple of unease, a whisper of something fragile. She kissed him harder, willing herself to believe, but the discord only sharpened.
It wasn’t that Castiel’s kiss lacked passion—it brimmed with it, overflowing the way only desperate things did.
