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“You’ll haunt me too,” she whispered, voice wavering. “For the rest of my life.”

He searched for every last dredge of strength he had left to hold her, to draw her so tightly against him they were fused into one.

What an existence—to love and lose, to come alive and come apart, all under the touch of someone who would never really be his.

Even if he was hers.

Even if his soul bent to her name, reshaped itself under her touch, howled for her under every full moon.

He would lose her, in the end.

She fell asleep curled against him, and Wolfe could not imagine a crueler fate than this.

When the sun rose, Wolfe’s energy returned with it.

As the rays inched closer over the floor and up the bed, he felt as if he’d just stepped into a steaming bath. Vibrations spread up his feet, thighs, and hips. When the sunlight hit his chest, he swore he felt his heart slamming against his ribs. His fingers came back, cut from shadow and given life once more. His neck. His face. The things that hunted in the night slunk away now that he was firmly back on solid ground.

He burrowed into the bed, sheets soft against his skin.

Avery slept still curled on her side, hands pressed against her chest.

It was a rare moment of vulnerability and he savored it, running a gentle finger down the slope of her nose and across her cheek. Her lashes fluttered and she stirred, murmuring something in her dreams.

He lay like that for a long time, breathing in the chocolate-and-tea scent that always clung to her skin. He stared at the Claddagh ring now turned toward her heart, a declaration to the world that she was taken.

It was selfish of him to ask it of her, but the sight undid him.

When he was alive, when this room was his, he’d wake most mornings before the sun even rose, having only gone to sleep four hours before. It was the only time he let himself dream of something more.

A family one day, maybe. A woman that he could worship and take care of. A wife he could laugh with and tease but bring to tremors with his touch. Someone to spend the long, lonely nights with and those beautiful, summer days. A child, perhaps. One that looked like a blend of the both of them. His eyes, her hair, the stubborn tilt of his chin, the softness of her cheeks.

He allowed himself to dream of a life where he wasn’t a lord. Where he owned a farm and worked the land. Where his breath would cloud in front of his mouth on cold winter mornings when he started his day and for a moment, there was stillness.

He allowed himself to dream of warm nights by the fire, their child asleep in the next room. He could imagine pulling her down on the couch, lips on her neck, murmuring into her skin.

It was a simple one but god, was it beautiful.

Looking at Avery now, those dreams flared anew.

It was an impossible and improbable thing to allow himself to dream of, but the child would have her honey-spun hair and the curve of her cheek. They would have her spirit, her kind and tender heart.

He brought the Claddagh to his mouth and kissed it, wishing for all the world he had something more to offer her than this.

Avery came to life around him, sleepy eyes taking him in. Her smile was pure and utter satisfaction. He went molten at the sight of it.

“Morning,” she whispered, linking their fingers.

“Morning,” he rumbled back, knee knocking into hers.

“You’re here,” she said, dozing once more.

“And where else would I be?” he asked. The words were weighted, a noose around his neck. “Everything I need is right here.”

“You’re a flirt,” she said, eyes slipping shut again. “Has anyone ever told you that?”

He laughed, the sound a mere rasp. “Once or twice.”

“Mmmm. I don’t care.” She clutched him tighter, her ring knocking against his. “I like that about you.”