Luna Forsaken (Arya and James) novel Chapter 147

147 He Isn’t the Trap

Arya’s POV

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I shoved at him weakly, trying to get space because I couldn’t breathe with his scent all around me, with my body remembering every time he had touched me in this yard, every time he had made heat and fury feel like twin blades.

He didn’t back away fully. He let me get half a step, then followed, eyes on my face, breathing harder now too.

I wiped at my cheeks angrily.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you can see everything.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, “I can see enough.”

My throat tightened all over again.

I should have turned. I should have walked. I should have run straight back to my room and locked the door and cursed him till morning.

Instead I stayed.

Because the bond pulled. Because my body was raw. Because grief had stripped me down to nerve and instinct, and some terrible part of me wanted to be held by the one person who looked at my broken edges and got angry on my behalf instead of embarrassed by them.

Lev stepped in slowly, giving me every chance to stop him.

His hand rose, thumb brushing one wet track on my cheek.

I shivered.

“Breathe,” he said.

I glared through tears. “Don’t.”

“Again.”

The command in it made something low in my stomach twist.

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I dragged in a breath just to spite him.

His eyes dropped to my mouth.

Mine dropped to his.

The yard went very still.

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I could hear my pulse. His breathing. The faint scrape of pine branches beyond the wall. Somewhere

far off, a guard called an order.

Here, inside the ring, there was only this.

Lev’s thumb moved once more against my cheek, then slid to my jaw, holding lightly.

“Don’t run from me,” he said, voice rough.

My lips parted on a shaky breath.

The words hit with the weight of memory, hallway, wall, heat, restraint, all those almosts between us stacking into something dangerous and starving.

“I’m not running,” I lied.

His mouth nearly curved. Not a smile. Recognition.

“You are.”

I should have denied it again.

Instead I whispered, “Maybe I should.”

His gaze darkened. “Why.”

I laughed once, broken and humorless. “You really want the list?”

“Yes.”

I stared at him.

At the patience. The certainty. The brutal way he always made me choose honesty when lies would be

easier.

“Because I am not healed,” I said. “Because I hate what my body does around you. Because every time you touch me I forget for one second, and then I hate myself for forgetting. Because wanting anything feels like betrayal to the woman I was before they ruined everything.”

<147 He Isn’t the Trap

The words came out ragged, but once they started, they kept coming.

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“Because if I let this happen, it becomes real. And if it becomes real, it can be used. It can be taken. It

can be turned into another weapon.”

Lev listened without interrupting.

No flinch. No protest. No false reassurance.

When I finished, the silence between us was thick enough to taste.

Then he stepped closer until my back touched the post again, his body heat surrounding me without

contact.

“You think wanting me makes you weak,” he said.

I lifted my chin. “It makes me vulnerable.”

“Same thing to you right now.

“Yes.”

His jaw tightened once.

Then, very slowly, he bent his head.

He paused a breath away from my mouth.

Waiting.

Not asking in words. Asking in control.

My whole body trembled.

Ria surged, desperate and shameless, pressing against my skin with a whine that was almost a growl.

I should have turned my face.

I should have.

Instead I closed the distance.

The kiss hit like a fight.

No softness. No tentative sweetness. All heat and restraint cracking at the same time. My fingers fist

in his shirt. His hand slams to my waist, hauling me flush against him, the other bracing beside my head as his mouth takes mine in a deep, punishing kiss that feels half claim, half hunger:

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147 He isn’t the Trap

I kiss him back like I’m trying to win.

He kisses me like winning was never the point.

My anger is in it. My grief. My fury. My need. His control holds even through the intensity, but I feel the rough edge of it now, the restraint stretched thin. He makes a low sound into my mouth that goes straight through me, and my knees nearly give.

His hand slides up my side, fingers spreading over my ribs, then higher, stopping just beneath my breast as if he’s gripping himself as much as me.

My body arches on instinct.

Heat floods low and hard.

I hate the sound I make when he drags his mouth from mine to my jaw.

I hate how much I want more.

His lips press to the side of my throat, right near the cancelled mark, and my hands clutch at him, fingers digging in, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him off.

“Arya,” he says against my skin, voice wrecked.

My breath shudders.

He kisses my neck once. Hard. Deliberate.

Claiming.

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