Seraphina's POV
Lucien's hand on my face was ice-cold, but everywhere he touched burned.
His silver eyes searched mine, looking for something—proof I was a trick, a spell, anything that would explain why I wore a dead woman's face.
"Same eyes," he whispered, his thumb tracing under my eye. "Same exact shade of gold-brown. Same little flecks of green near the center."
Through the blood bond, I felt his emotions crashing over me. Grief so deep it had no bottom. Longing that ached like an open wound. And underneath it all—want. Raw, desperate want that he was fighting with everything he had.
"Same hair." His other hand lifted, fingers sliding through my red waves. "She wore it exactly like this. Long. Loose. It caught fire in the sunset."
"Lucien—" My voice shook.
"Don't." His grip tightened slightly in my hair. Not painful, but possessive. "Don't say my name like that. Like you know me. Like you have any right—"
