Page 77 of Forged in Fire

For a while, we lie tangled together in the moonlight, his arm around me, my head tucked beneath his chin. I can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong, proof that this is real. That he’s alive. That somehow, impossibly, he found his way back to me.

“How did you get away?” I ask, tracing patterns on his chest.

“It’s not important,” he says, his voice rumbling beneath my ear.

Yet somehow, I think that it is.

“I can’t believe you’re here.” I tilt my head to look at him. “When they took me away… We just left you there.” I feel tears suddenly well. “I couldn’t do anything. I was so fucking helpless.”

“I know.” His fingers stroke through my hair. “I’m okay. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I was so sure you were dead.”

“You don’t need to think that anymore,” he murmurs.

And he’s right.

Nothing can touch this moment, this perfect bubble of peace and connection, dampen this warmth in my chest.

“What happens now?” I ask.

“Now you sleep.” He pulls the sheet over us both, settling me more securely against his side. “We both do. Tomorrow will come whether we’re ready or not.”

I close my eyes, breathing in the scent of him. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I feel safe. Whole. Like maybe everything will actually be okay.

“Stay,” I whisper, already halfway to sleep.

“I’m here,” he murmurs, and I sigh contentedly.

I drift off to the rhythm of his breathing, to the warmth of his body against mine, to the perfect rightness of being held by someone who understands me in ways nobody ever has.

For the first time in forever, my dreams are peaceful.

Chapter 23

Iris

I wake to cold sheets and gray morning light filtering through my window.

The bed beside me is empty, the pillow barely dented. When I reach across to the space where Riven should be, the sheets are cool to the touch, like no one has been there at all.

Panic claws at my throat as I sit up, scanning the room. The chair by the window sits empty, curtains moving gently in the breeze from the open window. The window that was definitely closed when I went to sleep.

“Riven?” I call, but my voice echoes in the silence.

I throw back the covers and search the room frantically—the bathroom, the small closet, under the bed, like he might be hiding there. Nothing. No trace that he was ever here except…

I press my hands to my body, feeling the tender places where his mouth and hands explored. The ache between my thighs thatspeaks of passion and completion. My lips, still slightly swollen from his kisses.

My body remembers everything.

But when I check the pillow where his head should have rested, there’s only the faintest hint of his scent. Or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe I’m imagining all of it.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, staring at the open window. The morning breeze carries the sound of birdsong and early activities in the Collective’s headquarters, normal sounds of a world that kept turning while my universe either cracked apart or put itself back together.

Was he really here?

The evidence is contradictory—my body says yes, the empty room says no. The open window could mean that’s where he came in last night, or it could mean nothing at all. I’ve been running on grief and adrenaline for days. Maybe my mind finally snapped. Maybe I needed him so desperately that I conjured him from moonlight and hope.