LUCY
Tavric doesn't answer right away. He just studies me for a moment, his gaze softening from the sharp focus he'd worn moments ago into something quieter, warmer, meant only for me now that the guards have gone.
"Come on," he says simply, extending an arm—not quite touching me, just offering the shape of support if I want it. "Let's get you back."
I take it without arguing, which surprises even me. My fingers curl loosely around his forearm, and the moment my skin makes contact with his, that same low, electric hum travels up my arm and settles somewhere warm behind my ribs, the way it always does now.
I've stopped pretending I don't notice it. I've also stopped pretending I don't like it, which is arguably the more dangerous development.
