Page 13 of Rook

“That’s not what I meant,” Oberon murmurs. “Be careful with your heart. With his. The things we do on eros…it makes us question who we are.”

I go quiet, swallowing the knot in my throat. “I want to help him, but I don’t think I can,” I whisper.

Oberon laughs softly, gently. “You helped me—so don’t lose hope.”

I hear Rook moving behind me, maybe going to check out the bodies. He doesn’t say anything, but he comes up and squeezes my shoulder before his footsteps thud on the stairs, and I sigh.

Alone with Luka.

The last thing I wanted.

“I love you, Oberon,” I say.

“Love you too, Ais.”

Back in the living room, Rook’s disappeared downstairs, leaving me with Luka, who’s boiling water for tea in the small kitchen. His back is to me, but I can feel the tension rolling off him in waves.

“Chamomile or mint?” he asks without looking at me.

“Chamomile,” I answer, taking a seat at the small table.

Luka nods, his back to me as he reaches for the teapot. His movements are deliberate, measured, as if he’s afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile peace between us. He places the cup on the table and steps back quickly, as if my proximity is a live wire he dares not touch.

I wrap my fingers around the warm ceramic, but I’m watching him, not the tea. “How you holding up?” I ask, biting down on my lip to keep it from trembling.

He leans against the counter, arms folded, eyes fixed somewhere past my shoulder. “Hanging on,” he admits, and even without looking at me, his voice drags the shadows of that night out into the open. “New Eden was… hell.”

I can hear the self-loathing twisting his words, the memories he wishes he could erase. New Eden—the place where everything spiraled out of our control, where Luka got hit with a dose of eros that turned him into someone we both didn’t recognize.

“Trip I never wanted,” he continues, a bitter edge creeping into his tone. “I hate what I did to you, Aisling. And what I did to myself.” He finally looks at me then, and there’s a haunted look in his eyes that makes my heart clench.

“I understand,” I whisper, mouth dry.

“Scary, not remembering,” he adds, his voice dropping to a whisper. It’s a confession, a sliver of vulnerability that slips through the cracks in his armor.

I push back from the table, my hands shaky as I abandon my tea and close the distance between us. Luka’s eyes, hollows of shadowed pain, don’t stray from mine as I approach. His breath catches when my fingers graze his hand resting on the counter, a shudder rippling through him. It’s electric, the spark that flashes from his skin to mine.

“Things are different now,” I whisper, my voice threading through the thick tension. “I can’t find Gunnar.” The admission is a stone sinking in the pit of my stomach.

Luka’s jaw clenches, his gaze fixed somewhere beyond me. “I’m looking too. He’s not in town. My gut says he’s with Nero Rossi.”

“Nero?” Confusion laces my question. Why would Gunnar seek out that unpredictable alpha?

He shakes his head, the line of his mouth tight. “Don’t know why. But if Gunnar’s sniffing around Nero, it’s trouble.”

Luka’s hand turns, his touch a silent plea, and I can’t help but respond. Our fingers entwine, a secret dance of forbidden yearning. The heat between our palms tells stories we can’t voice—of longing, regret, an ache so deep it threatens to consume us.

“I’ve missed you,” I admit, the weight of those words heavy on my tongue.

“Then don’t,” he counters, his voice rough. “Missing me…it’s like picking at a wound that won’t heal.”

“Talking helps sometimes,” I say, a feeble attempt to bridge the chasm of our shared torment. “You could always call.”

“Helps you, maybe.” His eyes are a storm about to break. “For me, every time I remember…remember you’re out there, it’s agony.”

Footsteps thud on the stairs, a staccato beat heralding unwanted intrusion. We pull apart as if scorched, the sudden absence of contact leaving a chill.

Rook appears, eyebrow arched in question or accusation—I can’t tell which. “Hope I’m not interrupting something important?”

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