Page 37 of Holding Onto You (Burnt Ashes #2)

Logan

T he fire pit crackles low, casting a warm amber glow across the porch, but the energy around it is anything but calm.

Chace paces like he’s gearing up for a mafia war, muttering to himself and swearing he’ll be the best-dressed mob boss in the entire Pacific Northwest. Sam flexes for the hundredth time, his black tank clinging to every gym-earned muscle.

“I’m telling you,” he says, completely serious, “I am Vin Diesel. I just haven’t hit my Hollywood prime yet.”

Trey groans, hunched in his pirate get-up as the stuffed parrot on his shoulder slides down again. “This damn bird weighs a freakin’ ton. Why couldn’t you guys let my other costume fly? Ya’ll suck.”

I laugh, the sound catching me off guard. It settles in my chest like a welcome guest. “Should’ve gone with an eyepatch.”

“And hide one of my beautiful eyes? No. Also—thanks, Mac, for the eye shadow,” he mutters, adjusting the parrot like it’s a tactical weapon.

“What was his other choice?” Mac asks, tilting her head. Sam and Chace pause, exchanging a glance before sighing in unison.

“He wanted to be a sexual predator.” Sam deadpans.

“Ew,” Mac grimaces. “Which one?”

“The alien one.” Trey says wistfully, like it’s a missed opportunity for greatness.

“I was looking at a full silicone suit—lizard skin, fishnets with tasteful cuts, nipple tassels and a dragon on my shoulder instead of a plasma cannon. The mask was gonna be part Predator, part Jason Vorhees. Because ladies love their masked lovers, right, you two?”

“Wait, why a Dragon?” Mac asks.

Trey grins like a gremlin.

“Oh, Macadamia nut, you innocent little thing. Dragon is the name of a dildo.”

Mac’s mouth drops open. “Oh. Sexual Predator.”

Their banter blurs into background noise as my eyes find her—Mac, leaning against the kitchen doorway.

She looks away first.

Because I know what she sees in my eyes.

Pain. Regret. A love too big to hold.

The others start peeling off one by one, tossing jokes over their shoulders, their footsteps creaking up the stairs.

And then it’s just her and me.

Mac.

The woman I’d give my last breath for.

I walk to her, quiet and steady. She doesn’t move when I stop in front of her, doesn’t flinch when I reach down and slide one arm behind her knees, the other around her back. Her breath catches, but she doesn’t fight it.

“Logan—”

“I’m taking you upstairs,” I murmur, lifting her into my arms. “Time to get lost in Wonderland.”

She lets out a soft laugh, one that makes something inside me ache with relief. “You’re really doing the Mad Hatter thing?”

“Full chaotic energy,” I grin. “You?”

She gives me a ghost of a smile. “Guess I’m your Alice.”

“No guessing about it.”

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, and I carry her up the stairs, slow and deliberate, like she’s the most precious thing in the world.

The room is quiet when we get there, golden light from the bedside lamp softening every shadow.

I set her down gently on the edge of the bed and kneel in front of the box at the foot of it—pulling out our costumes.

Mine’s a deep velvet coat with mismatched buttons, a crooked hat, and striped trousers that scream unhinged ringmaster.

Hers is a pale blue satin dress with a full skirt, delicate puff sleeves, and a tiny white apron trimmed with lace.

“You’re gonna look dangerous in this,” I say, holding it up.

She raises a brow. “Alice is dangerous?”

“You are.”

Her cheeks flush as I hand her the dress and turn away slightly to give her space. Still, I catch the soft rustle of fabric behind me, the zipper sliding up. She curses under her breath, and I glance back.

“Need help?” I ask, voice low.

She hesitates for a second, then nods.

I step in behind her, fingers brushing her bare spine as I tug the zipper up slowly, reverently. Her skin is warm beneath my touch. My mouth is inches from her neck, and I can’t help it—I press the lightest kiss to the curve of her shoulder.

She shivers.

“Logan,” she says, breath catching.

“Yeah?”

“You’re not making this easy.”

“Wasn’t trying to.”

She turns to face me, her gaze falling to the ridiculous top hat in my hand. “You’re gonna look insane in that.”

I smirk. “That’s the idea.”

“Mad Hatter, huh?”

I lift the hat and set it on my head at a crooked angle. “Completely mad for you.”

She rolls her eyes but smiles—and it hits me like a shot to the chest. Because that smile? That’s the first real one I’ve seen today.

And I know she’s still healing. Still questioning. Still afraid.

But for now, we’re here. Together.

Getting dressed in a borrowed room in a house full of family, ready to step into a night that promises something new.

Maybe even magic.

Because if she’s Alice, and I’m the Mad Hatter…

Then this love—this wild, impossible, aching love we’ve found in the wreckage—is the realest kind of Wonderland there is.

I strip the shirt over my head, tossing it to the bed without a thought. I'm half-focused on digging through the costume bag when I feel her behind me—still, quiet.

When I turn, she's staring.

Not at my face.

But at the fresh ink scrawled across my chest—still a little red around the edges, the skin raised and tender where it hasn’t quite healed yet. Her name. Mackayla. Inked in bold, elegant script. Right over my heart.

The world stops turning.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.

So I do.

I step toward her slowly, like anything louder than a whisper might shatter the moment completely.

“I got it last night,” I say, my voice rougher than I intend. “Right after I dropped you off.”

Her eyes flick up to mine, wide and glistening, and I feel like I’ve just handed her the last piece of myself I was still holding back.

“This isn’t just ink,” I whisper, pressing her palm flat against it. “It’s you. You’re here now, carved into me. Permanent. Irrevocable.”

Tears brim at the corners of her eyes.

“I know I’ve made mistakes, angel” I murmur, curling my hand over hers. “But you… you were never one of them. Loving you is the only thing I’ve ever gotten right.”

She opens her mouth to say something—but it falters. Breaks. Her lips tremble instead.

“I don’t want a future that doesn’t have you in it, Mac. I don’t want a life where I don’t get to kiss you goodnight or hold you through the bad days or laugh with you through the good ones. I want forever. With you. Only you.”

A tear spills down her cheek and slides along her jaw. I catch it with my thumb.

“I don’t care what the world says. About us. About why I’m here. They don’t know the first goddamn thing about how I feel when you walk into a room. Or how long I’ve been aching to belong to someone who makes me feel the way you do. You don’t just carry my heart, Mac. You are my heart.”

She falls against me, burying her face into my bare chest, over the very name that now lives there forever.

And as I wrap my arms around her, I swear to myself and to her—

there is no next love.

No backup plan.

There is only her.

My forever.

Mac sits at the vanity, the light from the mirror casting a soft glow across her face. I stay back, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed loosely over my chest, trying to act casual—but the truth is, I’m caught.

Completely fucking caught.

She’s brushing something onto her cheeks with slow, practiced sweeps, her movements fluid and calm. Focused. Controlled. Like this isn’t the first Halloween she’s done alone—like she’s had years of quietly building herself back up when no one was watching.

But I’m watching now.

And I can’t look away.

Her costume is already on—sweet and sexy, innocent and not at all.

The baby-blue satin clings to her waist, flaring around her thighs.

That little white apron. The knee-high socks.

It should be playful, but on her, it’s dangerous.

Like she could walk right into your story and rewrite the ending without even trying.

Then she reaches up and pulls the scrunchie from her hair.

And I swear to God, I forget how to breathe.

Her wild blonde hair tumbles down like it’s been waiting for this moment—unfurling in waves and soft curls, falling like silk to the small of her back.

The sight of it—raw and unfiltered—is enough to knock the air out of me.

Every inch of her, untouched and real and beautiful in a way I don’t think she even realizes.

She glances at me in the mirror, catching my reflection.

“What?” she asks, soft and a little self-conscious.

I shake my head slowly, stepping in. “You’re… Dios mio, Mac.”

She turns on the stool to face me, brow lifting, a shy smile tugging at her mouth. “That bad?”

“That good,” I breathe, stepping closer. “That impossible.”

She watches me with those eyes that see too much, her hands still resting in her lap.

“I’ve never seen anything more beautiful,” I say, voice low. “Not in this life… not in any.”

Color floods her cheeks, but she doesn’t look away this time. She lets me say it. Let’s me feel it.

And I do—every part of her in my blood, in my bones, in every beat of my goddamn heart.

I reach out, gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes flutter closed at the touch, just for a second.

“I like your makeup,” I murmur. “But I love your face without it.”

She smiles at that, tilting her chin up, looking at me like maybe this moment—just the two of us, suspended between the past and whatever comes next—is enough.

“I thought you were supposed to be mad,” she teases.

“Oh, I am,” I grin. “Madly in love with you.”

She groans at the line, but her hand reaches out to hook in the waistband of my trousers anyway, tugging me toward her. I let her pull me in until our foreheads touch, her breath ghosting over my lips.

“Let’s not go downstairs just yet,” she whispers.

And so we don’t.

We stay in our little pocket of time, in this borrowed room, dressed like two characters from a fairytale gone a little wrong—her hair wild down her back, my hat crooked on my head, and something stronger than gravity holding us in place.