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“You think because of that little game back there, I’ll trust you now?” I stride over to the bed and lift up one of the chains. “You think I don’t know you could have ripped out of these if you wanted to? You expect me to believe you gave me that kind of power when you won’t give me a simple answer? You’re playing with me, Lucien. I’m nothing but a toy to you. A toy. You’re manipulating me just like⁠—”

“Don’t you dare compare me to him.” Lucien closes the gap between us in an instant. “I told you I love you. Do you know what that means? I haven’t said those words for nearly five hundred years, Luna.”

“He told me that, too. Steven. He told me he loved me.”

“I mean it.”

My hands are shaking. I tilt my chin and meet his eyes. “I don’t believe you, Lucien. I think I am still an object to you. A thing you want to possess. Like every other man in my life. You want to own me.”

Fury rages in his eyes. He gets up from the bed and storms over to the large flat mirror above the desk. In one movement, he rips it from the wall, smashes it over his knee, and grabs a shard of glass.

I press myself against the wall, shaking, convinced he’s going to come for me. But instead, he presses the tip of the shard to his chest. Right in the center.

“What are you doing?” My eyes widen.

He presses harder, and harder, plunging the glass deeper and deeper. Blood drips down his chest, his abs, over his bellybutton, his hips, his cock. More and more as the glass digs in deeper and deeper. He drags it down, his fist curled around it, blood dripping from his palm too.

I cannot move. I am transfixed.

Finally, he drops the shard of glass to the floor. It lands with a thud on the polished concrete. He is breathing heavily. His skin is already trying to heal itself, but instead of letting it, he thrusts his fingers into the wound and, with a roar that shakes the entire room, splits his chest open. Completely. Open.

I scream and slam my hands over my mouth. “Lucien, stop!”

He picks up the piece of glass and drops to his knees in front of me. With blood dripping down to coat his body and the floor, he lifts the blade and holds it above his ribs.

I can see his heart beating. Muscle, and sinew, and skin, and blood.

I can hear his heart beating.

I can smell the blood.

He looks down, glass tight in his hand, and presses it to the rib directly above his dark, quivering heart. His hand moves slowly. He releases a loud roar, holding his chest open with one hand while the other makes small, considered movements above his ribs.

Finally, he stops. He raises his gaze and catches mine. He throws the glass to the floor and points to his chest. His skin is starting to heal, to slowly creep back in toward itself.

But I see now what he has done.

He has carved something into his ribs.

My name.

LUNA.

He lurches for me, grabs my hand, and presses my fingertips to the letters. I trace them slowly, transfixed by the rhythm of his heart and the feel of my name. When I look up at him, he takes my chin in his hand and growls, “Now, do you believe me, Luna? Do you believe that I love you? Or must I rip out my heart and throw it at your feet?”

My hand is still in his chest. His muscles and his skin are sewing themselves back together. If I don’t move, I’ll be trapped inside him. Literally. Inside him. I tug my hand, try to move it, but he holds it still.

“Do you believe me?” He breathes.

I don’t reply. Instead, shaking, I lower my lips to his exposed ribs and kiss the place where he carved my name. When I glance up at him through hooded eyes, with bloodied lips, I whisper, “I believe you, Lucien.”

He frees my hand, scoops me into his arms, and throws me back onto the bed. His eyes flash. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.”

“Can I fuck you again?”

“Yes.”