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To push me away, to smirk, to say something cruel and deflective and infuriating.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he lifts a hand, the tips of his fingers skimming down my throat, across my collarbone.

Unhurried.

Measured.

Possessive.

And when he speaks, his voice is nothing but a hushed, broken admission.

"I can’t."

28

ZEPHIRAN

Her blood is still on my skin.

Still burning where it seeped into my wounds, where it stitched me back together with something dark and binding and wrong.

She should not have done that. I should not have let her.

I didn’t have a choice, though.

Her fingers pressed into my chest, her blood leaking into the brand my father left on me, and the moment it touched me—the curse stilled.

Not fully. It’s not the solution. I don’t even know how she did it.

But I can’t deny that the curse stepped back.

Like a beast recognizing something older, something it couldn’t sink its teeth into.

And now—she’s waiting.

Her fingers still damp, lips still slightly parted, eyes locked onto mine with something I can’t fucking name.

"Tell me the truth," she murmurs, insisting even after my denial.

I remain still. If I move, I don’t know what I’m going to do next.

She doesn’t either. We’re in a stalemate

This thing between us, this twisted, violent pull—is going to consume us both.

And we’re both not ready.

We’re only inches apart.

Her breath warms my jaw, her pulse a frantic rhythm just beneath her skin.

The air between us overflows, charged with something too raw, too sharp, too inevitable.

I still feel her blood thrumming inside me, soaking into my bones like a brand, tying her to me in ways she doesn’t even fucking understand yet.

She should run while she still can. Leaving while I’m weak is her best option.

But she doesn’t.