<h4>Chapter 311: Westlife: Flying Without Wings</h4>


    They both stood beside each other looking down on Magnus. Still, even when their hearts felt oceans apart, their bodies betrayed them. Their wrists drifted closer on their own ord, drawn as though by invisible threads spun by the Moon Goddess herself.


    The faint brush of skin, the electric graze of fingers—it was enough to make Luna’s breath hitch, to make Damien’s chest tighten with desperate need.


    Neither of them dared move further, but neither pulled away either. That single touch was a lifeline and a dagger all at once.


    Luna’s heart throbbed in her chest, heavy, uneven. She prayed—silently, desperately—that this was all some cruel illusion, a fever dream conjured by dark magic. She wanted him to break the silence, to bend close and whisper that none of it was real, that the council, Isolde, the usations—every poison between them—was a nightmare.


    That she was still his, his mate, his queen, his everything. She needed him to im her again with words, with touch, with the fire only he could summon in her veins.


    But his silence was unbearable. It felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, hoping someone would catch her as she fell, only to realize the arms she trusted most might never reach for her again.


    Damien did not speak. He could not. His eyes stayed fixed on Magnus, the small rise and fall of his chest, the steady rhythm of his newborn son’s breath. If he looked at Luna for too long, if he let the truth spill, his carefully crafted walls would shatter. And yet, that silence was a de carving him open from the inside.


    He wanted to tell her everything, to confess his n, to exin that every harsh word and cold distance was nothing but armor to protect their family. But his tongue was stone. His throat, a locked cage. The only thing he offered was his silence, and it was killing them both.


    The ache in Luna’s chest split into anger. She pulled her wrist away, meaning to reim her body, her dignity. But Damien’s reflex was instinctive, primal—he caught her instantly. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, and only then did his eyes finally leave their son to find hers. His gaze locked onto her, fierce, desperate.


    Damien’s resolve cracked as he looked at her. The queen, his mate, his torment and his salvation. He couldn’t take it anymore—the distance, the disappointment in her eyes, the thought that she believed him faithless. Every time he looked at her and their child, he knew the truth: everything he was doing was killing him.


    He held her gaze for what felt like forever, drinking her in as though she were air and he’d been drowning.


    But her eyes... goddess, her eyes. Once filled with trust and adoration, they now reflected disappointment, hurt so raw it nearly brought him to his knees. Slowly, with trembling restraint, he lifted his other hand. He reached for her face, his palm hovering just inches from her cheek. He wanted—needed—to touch her.


    To press his forehead against hers, to beg her to hold on, to tell her she was the center of his world and he was nothing without her. The words pressed at the back of his throat, burning. <i>Please, Luna. Trust me. Just a little longer.</i>


    If he spoke, he’d undo everything. If he touched her, he’d crumble and betray the n that might be their only salvation. So at the veryst second, his hand faltered. Dropped. The space between them grew cold again. He released her wrist, fingers brushing away.


    His jaw clenched, his chest constricted, and with every ounce of his will, he turned away.


    Without a word, Damien walked out of the nursery, the door closing with a soft but final click.


    Luna stood rooted in the nursery, her thoughts spiraling into chaos. Her pulse still raced from the feel of his grip on her wrist, from the brush of his hand that almost—<i>almost</i>—touched her face. She had seen it. For a fleeting second, the mask had slipped. The struggle in Damien’s eyes had been undeniable.


    Her mate wasn’t gone, notpletely. He was still there, somewhere beneath the hardened fa?ade of a king tangled in the cruel chains of a cursed dual mate bond. The realization sent a spark of wild hope through her chest. If he was fighting, then maybe—just maybe—she could tip the scales back in her favor.


    Maybe she could remind him who he belonged to.


    She turned her head, her gaze falling on Magnus, sleeping peacefully in his crib. His little chest rose and fell. He was their anchor, their proof that what they had was real and unbreakable.


    She kissed her fingers, touched them lightly to Magnus’s forehead in a silent promise of protection, and left the nursery.


    The bedroom door was ajar, light spilling into the hall. When Luna pushed it open, the sight before her froze her in ce. Damien stood near the bed, his shirt half-unbuttoned, the fabric sliding from his broad shoulders as he tugged it off.


    His muscles flexed with the motion, the deep lines of his chest and the ridges of his abdomen catching the light. He turned at the sound of her footsteps, surprise shing in his eyes. She hadn’t set foot in this room with him in days, had banished herself to the nursery as though punishing him with absence.


    Their eyes locked.


    The struggle was written all over his face, in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, in the tautness of his jaw, in the flicker of longing he tried to hide. She realized then, with a sharp ache of guilt, that she hadn’t truly been listening.


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    He had been speaking to her in his own broken way all along—through silence, through restraint, through his pain—and she had turned her face from it. She had seen only betrayal, when beneath it was war. A war he was fighting alone. he had begged her to trust him, but she didn’t understand.