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“What is it, Cam?” he asks, and there’s something gentle in his voice now. “Are you okay?”

I look at the wall, tears welling in my eyes before I can stop them.

“No,” I say, and my voice cracks. “I’m not okay.”

Lucien takes a step toward me, then stops.

The space between us feels impossible. We’re just a few feet apart, but it might as well be miles.

I wish, God, I wish he would take the rest of the steps and erase the separation between us. I wish he’d pull me into his arms, let me breathe him in, and let me run my hands along the muscles of his strong back.

But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, watching me with his haunted dark eyes.

“Cam.” There’s something broken in his voice. “I’m poison. You don’t want me. I’m no good for you.”

No, Lucien. You’re my angel, and I need you. You are the only one who can heal the wound in me and make me whole.

I stammer out the beginning of the question, my voice barely above a whisper. “What…what does it mean?”

Lucien’s brow furrows, confusion flickering across his exhausted features. “What does what mean?”

I stare at the wall, unable to meet his eyes. My heart is in my throat. “Your t-tattoo.”

There’s a beat of silence. I feel him looking at me, can sense the shift in his posture even without seeing it. I finally glance at him, and I watch as he covers his face with both hands. His shoulders slump like something inside him has given way. He sits on the edge of his bed and takes a deep breath to steady himself, as if to prepare for something difficult. His elbows rest on his knees, and for a moment, he’s still, head bowed, his messy hair falling forward, hiding his expression.

“It’s from the crest of a Scottish clan,” he says eventually, the words coming out slowly, carefully.

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. “But you’re not Scottish.”

“I know.” The words are simple, but there’s something underneath them, a significance I can’t quite grasp yet.

I force myself to look at him properly. To really see him sitting there in his rumpled sleeping pants and black Henley, looking more vulnerable than I’ve ever seen him.

“Which clan?” I ask, and my voice sounds strange to my own ears, thin and uncertain.

Lucien’s eyes lock on mine, and in that moment, I see everything.

“Clan Cameron.”

The air leaves my lungs in a rush. I feel dizzy, unsteady, like the floor has tilted beneath my feet.

“And the words?” I manage to ask, though my voice is barely audible now. “The Gaelic?”

“It’s their motto. Aonaibh ri chéile,” Lucien says, and his voice is so careful, like he’s handling something fragile that might shatter at any moment. “It means Let us Unite.”

Chills run through my entire body, a physical wave that starts at the base of my spine and radiates outward until even my fingertips are tingling. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as my mind races to process what Lucien is telling me. The tattoo. The clan crest. The motto. All of it points to one impossible, overwhelming truth.

I want to ask more. I need to ask more. When did he get it? How long has he had it? What does it mean that he’s been carrying this on his skin for who knows how long, this permanent declaration that I never knew existed? But the words won’t come. They’re stuck somewhere in my throat, tangled up with all the emotions threatening to overtake me.

Instead, I just repeat, “But you’re not Scottish.” It’s all I can manage, this simple statement of fact that somehow feels like the only thing I can hold on to in this moment.

Lucien stands and walks toward me. Each step carries years of hidden feelings and unspoken truths. He stops close.

There’s something else in his face now, alongside the hurt and exhaustion. Something that looks like resolution, like he’s decided and there’s no going back from it.

“I know.” The words are barely more than a breath.

I stare, unable to think beyond the pounding of my heart and the way his presence fills every corner of my awareness.