Page 188

"We don't."

"We don't?"

I shake my head.

"No."

I brush my thumb over her hand.

"We survived something terrible."

A pause.

"But we stay because we choose to."

Her eyes soften. And then she kisses me. Slowly. Carefully. Like we have all the time in the world. Because now we do.

The kiss deepens. Not rushed or desperate. Just present. Her lips part under mine, and I taste the sweetness of carnival apples and something uniquely her. My hand finds the curve of her waist, pulling her closer, and she comes willingly. No hesitation. No ghosts between us.

We break apart only to breathe, foreheads touching.

"Your room or mine?" she asks, voice low.

"Mine's closer."

She smiles against my mouth. "Practical."

"Learned it from you."

We move quietly past Sayer, pausing briefly to listen to the soft rhythm of his breathing. Safe. Protected. Sleeping without nightmares for once. Carys's hand tightens in mine, and I know she's thinking the same thing—that we built this, that we fought for this ordinary peace.

My bedroom is dim, lit only by the streetlamp filtering through gauzy curtains. The festival music still drifts faintly from the town square, distant and dreamlike. She turns to face me, and I see her properly—really see her. The witch hat is gone, but her hair still carries the static electricity of the night air, wild and dark around her shoulders. Her eyes are wide, pupils blown, and she's looking at me like I'm something worth choosing.

"Tell me to stop," I say, "and I will."

"I don't want you to stop."

"I need you to know—you can. Anytime. This isn't because⁠—"

"Rhett." She steps forward, places her palm over my heart. "I know. That's why I'm here."

I cover her hand with mine. The rhythm beneath her palm is steady, strong, alive. I am alive. We both are. The revelation hits me fresh, the way it does sometimes since everything ended. We survived. We get to keep surviving.

I kiss her again, and this time there's heat beneath the tenderness. My fingers find the buttons of her shirt, undoing them with care, revealing pale skin marked with scars I know the stories behind—the thin line across her collarbone from the thing in the warehouse, the bruise fading from yellow to green on her ribs. I trace each one with my lips, not erasing them, honoring them. She shudders under my mouth, her hands sliding into my hair.

"You're wearing too many clothes," she whispers.

"So are you."

We undress each other with the patience we couldn't afford before, when every touch felt stolen, temporary, possibly the last. Now I unhook her bra and slide the straps down her arms slowly, watching the fabric fall, watching her watching me. Her breasts are familiar and new in this light, heavy and perfect, and when I cup them she arches into my touch with a soft sound that goes straight to my cock.

She pushes my jacket from my shoulders, then my shirt, her palms flat against my chest, my stomach, the waistband of my jeans. Her fingers are warm and slightly calloused—warrior's hands, survivor's hands—and they shake just slightly as she pops the button.

"Nervous?" I ask, surprised.

"Happy," she corrects. "It's different. Being happy."

I understand. I kiss her collarbone, her throat, the hollow behind her ear. "Me too."