His fingers closed around hers. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The look on his face said everything his discipline would have edited out.
The crowd cheered. Mika, near the door with a drink in each hand, yelled something unprintable. Kael, beside her, covered his face with what appeared to be secondhand embarrassment and genuine pride in equal measure. Keanu, standing two feet behind Mika with his own glass, said nothing. But he didn’t move away. And when the cheering peaked and the crowd surged, his hand came up briefly—steadying, automatic—at the small of her back. Gone before anyone would have noticed.
Lumi noticed.
Lumi turned to the next person in line. Zeir stayed beside her. She signed. He watched. And finally—after years of making art, the audience, the work, and the person she loved were all in the same room.
THIRTY-NINE
ZEIR
She stood at the windows in his shirt. White, oversized, the sleeves rolled to her elbows, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. She’d stolen it from his bathroom door while he was pouring wine and hadn’t apologized. The cotton hung open at the collar, exposing the line of her throat and the edge of black lace beneath.
“This view is absurd.” She pressed her forehead against the glass. “You can see all of Central Park. The entire park. Do you just... look at it? While you drink your morning espresso?”
“Sometimes.”
“That’s revolting. I live in a walkup where I can see my neighbor’s fire escape and a pigeon who I’m fairly certain pays rent.”
He set the wine on the counter. Crossed the room. Stood behind her—close enough that his reflection overlapped hers in the glass. Her back almost touching his chest. The warmth radiating off her skin carried the champagne-sweetness of an evening spent being adored by strangers. His hands stayed at his sides. Not yet.
“You’re doing that thing.” The words barely carried past the glass.
“What thing?”
“The protective positioning thing. Between me and the window. As though a sniper might be targeting me from the Met.”
“Force of habit.”
“It’s the forty-sixth floor.”
“Snipers are patient.”
She turned. Looked up at him. Her hair was loose—down past her shoulders, dark, the kind of careless he’d never seen her wear in public. The paint stain on her collarbone was still visible. The bruises from Red Hook had faded to yellow shadows on her wrists. She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen and he’d spent a decade working with artists who specialized in beauty.
“Zeir.”
“Hmm?”
“I’m going to kiss you now. This is your advance notice so you can do whatever alpha preparedness protocol the situation requires.”
“Noted.”
She rose on her toes. Her fingers curled into the front of his shirt—the same way they’d curled around a chain three weeks ago, with the same deliberate grip. She pulled him down.
The kiss started gentle. Her lips on his, testing—the careful pressure of someone who’d been building toward this for months and wanted to feel every second of the arrival. Her mouth was warm and soft and tasted like wine and the lip balm she applied compulsively while inking. She kissed the way she drew—with total attention, nothing wasted, every point of contact intentional.
He held himself still. Let her set the pace. His hands at his sides, fingers curling against nothing, because if he touched her now he wasn’t going to stop and she needed to know this was her choice. Every part of this was her choice.
She studied his face with the focus she used on difficult compositions—the slight narrowing of her eyes, the tilt of her head. Reading him.
“You’re restraining yourself.”
“Yes.”
“Stop.”
His control broke clean.
