The bedroom door swings open, and I stop breathing.
Candlelight transforms the space into something from a dream I didn’t know I was having—dozens of flames dancing on every surface, casting shadows that move like living things across walls that seem to pulse with warmth.
Rose petals scatter across the floor in patterns that suggest deliberate arrangement, deep crimson against pale carpet, a path leading toward the bed where more petals pool like spilled wine across silk sheets.
The candles near the bed sit in glass holders, considerate of the fact that what happens next might involve movements that would send open flames tumbling.
‘They’ve been busy,’ Nireya observes, and I can practically hear her rolling nonexistent eyes. ‘It seems the brothers were quite productive while we were playing nursemaid. I’m almost offended we weren’t consulted on the petal arrangement.’
I step inside and close the door behind me, the soft click of the latch somehow louder than it should be in the candlelit silence.
The air smells of roses and cedar and something underneath that registers as masculine anticipation—two distinct scents that have become as familiar to me as my own heartbeat.
Three glasses catch the firelight on the desk near the window, crystal throwing tiny rainbows across the wood grain. Two champagne flutes stand beside a third glass filled with something darker—sparkling cider or apple juice, I realize, and the thoughtfulness of the substitution makes my throat tighten. The bubbles inside rise in lazy spirals, patient, waiting.
Movement shifts the shadows to my left.
Paul emerges from the darkness near the closet, his chest bare, firelight playing across muscles that flex with each step. His eyes hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse stutter, ice blue transformed to molten gold by the candle flames reflecting in their depths.
From my right, Zane materializes with equal grace, his own torso exposed, his expression carrying tenderness that balances his brother’s fierce hunger.
They move in concert, approaching from opposite directions, and I stand rooted to the spot as they converge on me like twin forces of nature that have finally found their center.
Paul reaches the desk first, lifting a champagne flute and passing it to Zane before taking the second for himself.
Zane retrieves the remaining glass—the one without alcohol—and extends it toward me with a small smile that acknowledges the consideration without making a production of it.
“To our Luna,” Paul says, and the words carry a ceremonial weight that settles into my bones.
“To our mate,” Zane adds, his voice softer but no less significant.
The cider tastes like celebration and promise, crisp apple and effervescence bursting against my tongue with a sweetness that seems to amplify every sensation already flooding my nervous system.
I drink deeply, letting the warmth of that realization spread through my chest, and watch both men do the same over the rims of their glasses.
Zane crosses to a small speaker I hadn’t noticed, and a moment later, music fills the room—something low and rhythmic, all bass and breath, the kind of sound that vibrates through the floor and up into my feet and settles somewhere in my pelvis like a second heartbeat.
Paul sets down his empty glass and closes the remaining distance between us. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, hovering without touching, a question posed without words.
“You might want to lose these,” he murmurs against my ear, and his breath raises goosebumps across my neck.
“You’ll have to put in some effort first.” The tease emerges before I can stop it, bravado I don’t entirely feel but need to project because surrendering completely feels like falling from a great height.
The smile that curves Paul’s mouth is slow and devastating. “That can be arranged.”
His hands slide beneath my shirt, palms rough against the soft skin of my waist, and the contact sends electricity arcing through my nerve endings.
Behind me, Zane’s presence registers as heat before I feel him—the warmth of his chest pressing against my back, his hands finding my hips, his mouth tracing a path along the curve where my neck meets my shoulder.
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