“I’m not ready for that,” I muttered, almost ashamed.

She let out a quiet breath.

“It’s not about being ready, Lena. You have to take the first step. Please. For yourself.”

She left without another word, the door closing softly behind her.

I was left alone again, the phantom’s touch still lingering in the back of my mind, its warmth and weight still pressing on me.

I sat there for a long time, staring into the dark, my mind racing.

Had it been a dream?

Or was it something else?

Something more?

I didn’t know what was real anymore.

But I was certain of one thing—whatever it was that had touched me, it wasn’t done yet.

And neither was I.

11

CASSIAN

I watched her from the shadows, hidden just out of her sight, as she fidgeted in bed.

Her body, curled beneath the thin sheets, trembled ever so slightly.

I could feel her heart beating faster, faster, as she lay there, aware—somewhat aware—that I was close.

It wasn’t the first time.

She’d felt me before, even when she tried to convince herself it was just a dream.

But dreams don’t feel like this.

Her skin, so soft, so fragile...

I longed to touch it, to trace every curve with my fingertips.

The warmth of her breath, the pulse of her veins beneath the delicate surface of her neck...

I could taste it.

Could taste her.

She didn’t know how much I hungered for her, for the way she trembled, for the way her mind unraveled in small, quiet moments like this.

She didn’t know that every little sound she made, every soft sigh, every whispered breath, called to me in ways that no one else ever could.

I watched her shift beneath the covers, her fingers brushing against her skin in a way that was far too delicate to be accidental.

She felt it—just as I knew she would.

Touch me, I whispered in the dark, though I knew she couldn’t hear me.

She moaned in her sleep, a soft, almost inaudible sound, like she was giving in to the sensation.

Her body responding to my presence, just as it always did.

She didn’t need to say it.

I could feel it in the air, thick with need, heavy with confusion.

I had waited for this, waited for her to reach the breaking point.

For her mind to start doubting itself.

For her to start unraveling, piece by piece.

And when she finally did, when she finally let me in...

I would have her.

Slowly.

Reluctantly.

But I would have her.

She sat up abruptly, her breathing ragged, heart pounding as if she’d run a marathon.

She wasn’t used to me being this close, so close that she could taste the warmth of my presence, feel the pulse of my energy against her skin.

I almost laughed, the sound trapped in my chest.

She was always so afraid of me, even when she was drawn to me.

But fear was an intoxicating thing.

Fear was a bridge.

And I had learned long ago how to make people cross it willingly.

She gasped, sitting up fully now, eyes wide as she scanned the room, trying—no, hoping—that it was just her mind playing tricks on her.

But it wasn’t.

It never was.

I moved closer, just beyond the range of her vision.

I could almost feel her pulse racing, her body on the edge of flight, her mind on the edge of breaking.

She was so close to understanding, so close to feeling the truth: that I was always there, always near, just out of reach.

She could never escape me.

Not this time.

Not ever.

And then, as if she was slowly piecing it together, her gaze drifted to the space just beyond the bed.

Her eyes flickered to the door, to the open window.

She searched, desperate, hoping to see something—anything—that would reassure her.

But I was already gone.

Not truly gone, though.

She couldn’t see me, but I was still there, lingering.

Watching.

Waiting.

Her heart rate slowed, her breathing steadying, but the tremor in her body wouldn’t leave.

It would stay with her.

Always.

Her best friend came then.