Page 60

Her smile curved, small and full of meaning. “You’re upright.”

“Barely.”

“That’s progress.”

They stood like that, hand in hand, the world spinning around them while theirs stilled.

“Wanna get outta here?” he asked, voice gruff.

Her brow lifted slightly. “You mean miss the ceremonial dance and Missy’s highly choreographed lantern lighting?”

He stepped closer, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “I mean be somewhere just us. Where I can tell you I love you without ten grandmothers eavesdropping.”

She shivered. “Then yes. Definitely yes.”

They slipped from the green beneath the arch of twilight roses, following the moonlit trail toward the tree line. The forest welcomed them—not cold and watchful like before, but curious. Open.

By the time they reached the grove beyond the whispering pines, the world had quieted.

Fireflies blinked lazily between fern leaves. The moon spilled silver light across the mossy clearing like an invitation.

Delilah turned to face him, her hands sliding up his chest, careful not to press too hard against the bandages.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” she asked.

“I wasn’t,” he murmured, leaning into her touch. “But I am now.”

The moon hung high over the clearing, casting silver over everything it touched—over moss, over skin, over love being remade.

Delilah tilted her chin, eyes flickering with emotion. “I was scared.”

“I know.” Rollo’s voice was rough, low, like gravel soaked in honey.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

Her voice cracked, and that did him in.

He kissed her—soft and sure, like planting something that would bloom come morning. Not a claim. Not a rush. Justtruth.

He pulled her closer with the arm that wasn’t braced in gauze and ache, lips brushing her cheek, her jaw, the hollow of her neck. Her scent—rose hips, clove, rain on dry earth—wrapped around him, made his head light. Her fingers slid into his thick, dark hair, curling tight. Holding him. Anchoring him.

She tasted like magic and memory.

And when she sighed, it wasn’t sad. It was surrender.

They fell together to the mossy forest floor like it had been waiting for them. Cradling them. Witnessing them.

Her dress slipped from her shoulders with a whisper. He caught the moment—the way her skin glowed in the moonlight, the freckles on her collarbone like constellations, the dark olive of her flesh deepened by shadow and softened by the shimmer of dew. He traced those freckles with his fingers, memorizing her again like a man who had almost lost everything.

“You’re sure?” he asked.

Delilah cupped his cheek, hazel eyes sparking gold with magic. “I want you. Even bruised. Especially bruised.”

A huff of laughter escaped him, but it broke off when she leaned up and pressed her lips to a scar just below his ribs.

He shuddered. “That was a blade. Blackroot poison. Nearly bled me out.”

“And now?” she asked, kissing the mark again. “Now it’s just a line. One you lived through. One you don’t carry alone anymore.”