Page 36

Finally, finally, he turns.

And when he does, it guts me.

His face is drawn. Pale in places, bruised in others. His mouth—once so quick to smile, to smirk, to taunt—is a straight, tense line. His eyes… gods, his eyes don’t look like his. They’re dim. Not from lack of light. From absence. Like something inside him went dark and never came back on.

“I don’t feel like myself,” he says, his voice low, deliberate. “Not in my skin. Not in my power. It’s like I’m walking around in a body that remembers you, but my soul’s somewhere else. Somewhere she took and didn’t bother to return.”

“I know,” I say, and I do. I’ve seen what Branwen did. Felt it in every touch he didn’t let linger. Every glance he’s refused to give. “But the bond—it doesn’t need the version of you you think you lost. It just needs you.”

He shakes his head. Not a violent motion. Just tired. Like even disagreeing takes too much energy.

“You should hate me,” he whispers.

“Why?” I ask. “Because she used you?”

“Because I let her.”

“No, Caspian,” I say, stepping forward until I’m in front of him, close enough to touch, though I don’t yet. “You didn’t. She carved obedience into your spine. That’s not the same as consent.”

He lifts his gaze to mine, finally. And the pain in it—gods, it’s staggering. The kind of hurt that doesn’t scream. It just sits there. Quiet. Heavy. Permanent.

“Then why does it feel like I broke something anyway?” he asks. “Every time I look at you, it’s like… like I remember wanting you, but I can’t reach the want. I can’t feel it like I used to. I can’t feel anything the way I used to.”

My hand lifts—slow, cautious—and I press it to his chest. His heart stutters beneath it. Unsteady. But present.

“You’re not broken,” I say. “You’re bruised. And you’re scared.”

“I’m not scared,” he snaps.

“You are,” I counter, and lean in, not kissing him yet, just close enough to feel the heat of his breath. “You’re terrified this won’t work. That you’ll hurt me. That you’ll never come back to yourself. And you’re afraid that if you reach for me and still feel nothing, it means she won.”

His lips part. Not for a reply. For air. I press closer. My body against his, soft where he’s rigid, sure where he’s lost.

“Caspian,” I whisper, “let me in.”

He closes his eyes. Just for a moment.

And when they open again, there’s something new in them.

Not heat. Not lust. Not yet.

But permission.

I lean up and kiss him. Not the kind of kiss meant to seduce. The kind meant to remind. Slow. Anchored. Deep. My hands slide up to cup his jaw, my thumbs brushing the curve of his cheekbone. He doesn’t kiss me back at first—just stands there, caught in the moment, breath held—but then his hands lift, hesitant, and settle at my waist.

He exhales like it hurts.

And then he moves. Not rough. Not practiced. Just… honest.

His lips catch mine again, firmer this time, with a tremble he doesn’t hide. His hands flex against my hips. And when he pulls me closer, it isn’t about sex. Not yet.

There’s a point—barely perceptible—where my want stops being mine.

His hands haven’t moved much, still bracketed at my waist like he’s holding something fragile, and his mouth brushes mine in that aching, reverent way that would’ve wrecked me weeks ago. But something slides beneath my skin, a warmth too smooth, too curated, that doesn’t come from inside me. It rolls through me with purpose, not like a wave of arousal, but like something engineered to be perfect. It finds the corners of my body that carry hesitation and replaces them with hunger. Perfect, seamless hunger.

It feels good. Too good.

And that’s the problem.