Page 112 of No Charm Done

Reality hiccupped. The air three feet to Chuck’s left tore open like a wound in the world.

Shaw fell through it.

He dropped from standing height and hit the grass hard, ending up sprawled on his back and staring at the sky. On his face was the expression of a man who’d just had a very confusing interaction with the laws of physics. His suit was scorched. He was bleeding from a cut above his eyebrow. But he was very much alive.

Luna’s sob cut off mid-breath.

Shaw blinked several times, trying to process where he was, then appeared to give up the effort. Rolled his head to the side, saw Chuck sitting there looking enormously pleased with himself, and croaked: “Where in the hell am I?”

Then Shaw’s gaze found Luna. Tears on her face. Staring at him like he was a ghost.

His expression did something complicated: relief and regret and something that looked almost like fear. “Luna,” he said. His voice was wrecked, raw. “I’m sorry⁠—”

Luna was already moving, and it was as if the space between them didn’t exist at all. She was just suddenly there, dropping down beside him, hands hovering over his scorched jacket like she was afraid he’d dissolve. “You idiot!” Her voice was shaking. “You stupid, reckless, absolute idiot⁠—”

“Yeah,” Shaw agreed hoarsely. “That’s fair.”

“You could have died⁠—”

“I know. I did try calling first.”

“I know.” Luna’s hands were still shaking, still not quite touching him. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I should have⁠—”

“Don’t.” Shaw tried to sit up, winced, settled for propping himself on one elbow. “Don’t apologize. I earned that hang-up. I earned all of it.”

“Your tie,” Luna said, and her voice broke. “Your tie is gone.”

“It was about a hundred years out of style, anyway.” Shaw’s eyes never left hers. “You were in danger. What else was I supposed to do?”

“Not die!” The word came out somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “You were supposed to not die!”

“Well, I mean . . .” Shaw said, and his mouth curved into something that was almost a smile. “I think I managed that much. You wanna check?” He reached up . . . slowly, carefully, like he thought she might bolt, and touched her face.

His hand was burned. His fingers were shaking. But his touch was gentle, and his expression was doing that thing where he looked at her like she was the only miracle he’d ever believed in.

“Hi,” he said softly.

Luna made a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. And kissed him.

The kiss was urgent, fierce, as if they’d been apart for decades instead of days. Shaw’s uninjured hand slid around Luna’s waist, his grip possessive but tender. His lips moved against hers, communicating what he couldn’t find the words for: I’m sorry, I want you, I need you, let’s never be apart. Luna didn’t care about Vex’s destruction or magic’s salvation or that half the town was watching. All she cared about was how perfect it felt to be with him again.

Chapter 30

Time Shall Grant Your Longing

Luna woke to sunlight filtering through lace curtains and the steady sound of Shaw’s breathing, as he slept the sleep of the recently nearly dead.

She turned her head on the pillow. Slowly. Carefully. As if too much movement might break the spell.

He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm flung over her waist with a possessiveness that made her chest go tight. The heat of him seeped into her through the sheets. He shifted in his sleep, his arm tightening reflexively around her waist. He looked peaceful, utterly unguarded, but the bruising and faint burn marks were reminders of the violence he’d survived. A medicinal scent still hung in the air, sharp and herbal, from the salves applied in the frantic hours before this impossible calm.

For most of the night, Luna had been half convinced she’d imagined the whole thing. That this reprieve was just her grief-shattered mind assembling comfort out of wishful thinking. So she stayed very still. Kept her breathing shallow. Watched his back rise and fall. Counted the breaths. One. Two. Three. Proof.

A soft, unconscious sound left him, rough with sleep and pain both.

He was here. Warm. Snoring. Taking up approximately seventy percent of her childhood bed despite being only one person.

Mine, she thought, with a fierce satisfaction that would’ve embarrassed her if she’d said it out loud. He’s mine, and he’s staying.