Page 25

Chapter 24

I walked past him, close enough that my shoulder brushed his chest. The door shut behind me with a soft click, but I didn’t turn to look. I just kept going—through the quiet clinic toward his bedroom, the space where I'd nursed him through fever, where I'd first let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, I wasn't meant to always be alone.

The irony wasn't lost on me.

In his bedroom, a single candle burned on the small table beside his bed, casting everything in amber and shadow. The sheets were rumpled, as if he'd been lying there, unable to sleep. The thought gave me a strange comfort.

I stood at the edge of the bed and finally looked back. He was still in the doorway, watching me. His eyes searching mine. Like he didn’t quite understand what this was.

He started to speak—“Ro…”—but I shook my head.

Not tonight. No explanations. No questions.

I reached for his hand. His fingers closed around mine, and I led him the rest of the way, step by step, until we were standing beside the bed. I turned, my hands going to the buttons of his shirt. They were small and stubborn, half-hung with loose thread, and it took longer than it should have to work them loose. He didn’t help. Just watched me with something unreadable in his eyes.

When the fabric finally gave, I slid it from his shoulders and let it fall, then pressed a hand flat against his chest. His heart beat steady beneath my palm, strong and constant. Everything I was not.

I leaned in and kissed him.

He kissed me back, slow at first, careful. His hands came to my waist, then my back, then up into my hair like he wasn’t sure where to hold me. Like he was still asking permission even after I’d already come to him.

I rose onto my toes and kissed him harder. No gentleness, no hesitation—just need and heat and the desperate knowledge that morning would come too soon.

His restraint broke with a low growl that vibrated through my bones. He lifted me effortlessly, one arm around my waist while his other hand tangled in my hair, deepening the kiss until I couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the taste of him.

When he set me down again, it was to undress me with careful hands, each button and tie loosened with deliberate attention. I pushed his hands away when he moved too slowly, rushing to shed the layers between us. He caught my wrists.

"Let me," he murmured.

So I stood still and let him unwrap me like something precious, each piece of clothing set aside until I stood bare in the candlelight, skin prickling with goosebumps that had nothing to do with the cold.

He touched me with such care—fingertips trailing along my collarbone, palm curved to the shape of my waist, thumb brushing the soft skin beneath my breast. Each touch was gentle and measured, as if he was trying to commit me to memory just as I had done with him.

Too gentle. Too careful. Like I might break.

I kissed him again, harder this time, letting my teeth catch his bottom lip. His response was instant—arms tightening around me, a deep hum of approval vibrating from his chest to mine. He lifted me again, carrying me the few steps to the bed before sitting with me straddling his lap. I could feel the tension in him—barely leashed, held tight. His hands on my hips, not moving. His mouth on mine, gentler now, like he thought I might break.

But I didn’t want gentle. I didn’t want to be handled like glass. I wasn’t here to be comforted.

I was here to be remembered .

I shifted in his lap, the rough fabric of his pants dragging against my inner thighs. My hands moved between us, clumsy now, fumbling with the laces at his waistband. I didn’t care if I looked desperate—I was desperate. For this. For him.

His breath hitched when I brushed against him, already hard beneath the worn fabric. He bent his head, mouth finding the curve of my breast, then lower—slow kisses, the tip of his tongue flicking against my nipple.

He started to shift beneath me—one arm sliding behind my back, the other bracing under my thighs, like he meant to lift me, lay me down, but I resisted, keeping him upright. His brow furrowed slightly.

"Let me take care of you," he said, hands moving to lift me. "Let me—"

"No." My voice was rough with emotion. "I just want you. Like this."

He stilled. His forehead rested against my sternum for a long second, like he was weighing something. Then his hands gripped my hips again, anchoring me there, his breath unsteady.

“Rowena… if we don’t go slow…” His voice was thick, rough-edged. “I’ll hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“I might.”

I reached down, took his hand—bigger than mine, rough and scarred, the hand that had healed wounds I couldn’t see—and brought it between my legs.

“Then heal me.”

His eyes snapped to mine. And stars, the look on his face—like I’d just handed him the last piece of something sacred and broken.

He didn’t speak. Just nodded once, like anything else would shatter both of us.

His hand slid between us, fingers brushing where I was already aching. I felt the warmth of his magic gather there, not hot, but deep—a hum under my skin, like my body knew him and welcomed him.

I bit my lip, trying to stay quiet. But as I freed him from his trousers and lowered myself onto him, slowly, carefully, that quiet gave way to a sharp sound—half pain, half something else. A sting, then a bloom of relief, as if the ache was being rewound, knit back together under his touch.

My eyes blurred, but not from pain. From the weight of it—of being seen, of being healed, of being held even as I was coming apart.

Here was the unbearable contradiction: he could do this, could touch me, see me, heal me with such profound tenderness... and still choose to leave.

He noticed my tears and immediately stilled. "Am I hurting you?"

I shook my head, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.

"We can stop—"

"Don't stop," I whispered, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please—just let me have this."

Something shifted in his expression then—a flash of realization, perhaps, or understanding. His hands tightened on me, and he moved again, slow and deliberate, golden healing light pulsing between us with each careful thrust.

I buried my face against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him—earth and smoke and something faintly bitter, like crushed herbs. He was warm everywhere I touched him, solid and steady beneath me, grounding me even as I unraveled. The ache in my body softened, edged by the curl of pleasure winding slow and deep in my belly, but the ache in my chest only sharpened.

I knew this wasn’t forever. And Seven save me, it made every breath taste like grief.

His mouth found mine again, not demanding—just there, offering. I kissed him back through tears I couldn’t stop, my body trembling with every slow drag of him inside me. My hands gripped his shoulders, then his face, then his back—searching for places to hold on. For something to anchor me.

I moved against him harder, chasing the release building inside me. His hands gripped my hips tighter, helping me find the rhythm, meeting me with a controlled strength that threatened to undo me all over again. The way he held back—not because he didn’t want to lose control, but because he refused to risk breaking me—that was what shattered me.

“I can take it,” I whispered, half a sob. “You don’t have to be careful.”

But he didn’t go harder. He just kissed me again, deeper this time, and whispered, “You shouldn’t have to take it. Not from me.”

And still he moved, slow and steady and unrelenting, like he could draw every unspoken word from my skin. Like he needed this too, even if he didn’t understand why.

Pleasure crested, sharp and sudden, stealing my breath. I clung to him, burying my cries in the crook of his neck. He held me through the shudders, his hands broad and warm, whispering my name like a prayer.

When the wave passed, I stayed curled against him, shaking. He didn’t move—just cradled me there, his breathing ragged, sweat beading at his temple. He was holding back still.

“Kaz,” I whispered, tilting my head to meet his eyes. "Please."

His mouth crushed against mine in answer. His hands shifted, gripping my thighs as he finally let himself move the way I knew he’d wanted to from the start—deep, rough, raw.

I gasped, clinging to him, the pleasure sharp again, the magic flaring bright and golden where we were joined. His lips dragged over my jaw, my shoulder, my throat, until he reached the curve where neck met collarbone—

And bit.

My breath hitched, and I felt it—his magic, sinking into me. Not just healing. Not just pleasure. Something binding. Claiming.

And I gave something back. Not just my body. Not just this night. But a piece of whatever I still had left to give.

A heat spread from that point like sunlight under the skin, a golden thread stitching us together.

Still, he held me.

Still, I knew he would leave.

But for now—for now—I belonged to him.

And he belonged to me.

For a long time, we didn’t move.

His forehead rested against mine, our breathing ragged and uneven, the candle flickering soft shadows across the walls. My thighs ached, my chest still hitched with leftover sobs, but I couldn’t seem to let go. Not yet. Not when the warmth of his body wrapped around me like the last safe place in the world.

His hands moved slowly now—soothing passes down my spine, fingers brushing my hips, my back, my hair. Like he was trying to smooth the edges of something he didn’t have words for.

“I didn’t mean to make you cry,” he murmured finally, voice hoarse.

“You didn’t.” I pulled back just enough to look at him, my hand cupping his jaw. “Not like that.”

His eyes searched mine, but I didn’t explain. Couldn’t. Because how do you say you made me feel safe enough to break ? How do you admit I don’t know how to let myself be loved , and now that I am, it’s too late to keep it ?

He leaned in and kissed the mark he’d left at my throat, where it throbbed with quiet heat.

“You didn’t heal it,” I said softly.

His gaze dropped to the mark, then back to mine. “Didn’t want to.”

Something caught in my throat.

He didn't explain. I didn’t ask. But the meaning hung between us like smoke—sharp-edged and unspoken.

A part of me wanted to stay like this forever—curled in his lap, wrapped in the heat of him, the steady rhythm of his heart beneath my cheek like proof the world hadn’t ended yet. I wanted to believe this moment could stretch long enough to hold onto. That maybe, if I just stayed still, it would all stop slipping away.

But it wouldn’t. Not really.

Because I knew what I was going to do.

And I thought—maybe he knew it too.

That knowledge settled hard in my chest. Not anger. Not fear. Just the quiet ache of knowing love wasn’t always something you got to keep. Sometimes it was the thing you gave up, so someone else could stay whole.

I shifted carefully in his lap, and he eased me down beside him, tucking the blankets around us without a word. His arms came back around me without hesitation, holding me close, his hand finding the small of my back. I pressed my face against his chest and closed my eyes.

I let him hold me until his breathing evened out, slow and deep, his hand still splayed warm and solid against my spine.

And when I was sure he was asleep—when his grip softened and the weight of his arm went slack—I slipped from the bed.

Quiet as I could.

Gathered my clothes from the floor. Dressed slowly in the dark, swallowing down the ache in my throat with every movement.

I paused at the edge of the bed. Watched him, just for a moment. The soft curve of his mouth. The furrow still lingering between his brows, even in sleep. One arm outstretched, like he’d reached for me even after I’d left his arms.

I reached down and brushed my fingers along his jaw. Light. Barely a touch.

He didn’t stir.

I slipped out into the hall, then through the darkened clinic, my footsteps silent on the worn floorboards. The moonlight caught on the edge of a glass jar as I passed, casting a pale glow across the room. Familiar. Steady. Like nothing had changed.

The streets were quiet as I walked home alone, the first hints of dawn painting the edges of the buildings in pale gold. A few early risers nodded greetings that I barely registered, my mind still in that dim room, with him.

Beneath my shawl, the mark on my neck pulsed gently in time with my heart. Not a wound. A tether. A reminder that—for a breath, for a night—I had been seen. I had been held. I had been loved. Even if that love couldn’t stay.

One mark given in darkness. One left in love.

Both would fade, eventually.

But I would remember, for as long as I could.