Page 32 of Claimed In Darkness

32

ZEPHIRAN

N aira is slipping away from me. I can feel it in the way she moves.

Too calculated. Too controlled.

She’s never been controlled. Not by me. Not by the poison. Not by the fucking chains I wrapped around her throat the moment she set foot in my world.

But now—she’s making a choice.

And it isn’t me.

Maybe letting her go is the best choice.

I should let her sit in that fire she’s building under her skin, let her pretend that what happened between us wasn’t real.

But I don’t.

I’m aware what t she does when she feels cornered.

She burns.

She destroys everything in her path—even herself.

And I can’t let her do that.

I feel her gaze at my back as I push away from the fire.

Aereth says nothing.

She doesn’t have to.

She knows exactly why I’m leaving.

And I don’t like that.

I dislike that I let her sit so close, let her press soft, delicate hands against my arm, let her laugh like she’s never been dead, never been ripped from my life in blood and screams.

I let myself believe for even one second that her touch should feel familiar.

I let myself think this should be easy.

How can I deny the truth?

When her fingers grazed my skin, when she whispered my name like she still owned it?—

I felt nothing.

No ache. No longing. No buried love rising from the grave.

Only the slow, sinking lie weighing tons and dragging me down.

I know what I want.

And it isn’t her.

I should have stopped her.

I should have shoved Aereth away the moment her hands touched my skin, the moment her lips hovered near my throat.

But I didn’t.

Because needed to know.

I needed to feel if there was anything left.

And now I realized that there isn’t anything left.

Aereth is a ghost wearing skin.

But she is not mine.

And Naira is not fooled.

"You’re a coward," Naira murmurs.

The words lash through me, a cold, violent snap of truth.

I don’t argue. I just step closer.

Close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off her body, the tension coiling in her muscles, the way her pulse hammers beneath her skin.

"You think I don’t know that?" I rasp.

She tilts her head.

"Then why do you still want me?"

The question is a fucking dagger in my gut.

She’s not mocking me. It isn’t bitter.

It is genuine. That’s what kills me the most.

That she still doesn’t know.

She doesn’t see what’s fucking burning inside me.

She doesn’t understand that there has only ever been her.

How can I stop wanting her?

I try not to like her for making me feel this way.

I grab her wrist.

Not soft nor careful.

And I pull her to me.

Her breath catches.

I feel it against my throat, a warm rush of air, a shudder that gives her away.

She still wants this.

Wants me.

Even if she hates me.

I lower my head, lips hovering just above hers, not touching, just close enough that I know she’s waiting for it.

"You want to know why I didn’t stop her?" I murmur.

Her breath shudders, but she doesn’t move away.

"Because wanted to see if I still could."

"And?" she whispers.

I exhale slow, my hands tightening on her arms, dragging her flush against me, needing her to feel what I cannot fucking say.

"You already know the answer."