Page 186 of Legacy

“My grandfather took over. Then my father. And now me.” He glances at me. “None of us were meant to carry this. But the blood keeps calling us back.”

I don’t speak.

Because what do you say to a man born from death?

To a family line that was supposed to press grapes, not pull triggers?

It explains so much. His silence. His restraint. The way he holds power like it might shatter in his hands.

It was never supposed to be his.

But it is.

He plucks a grape from a nearby vine and offers it to me. My lips accidentally graze his fingertips—warm and callused—and his breath stills as I take it.

His eyes darken.

“Careful,” he says, voice lower now. “You keep doing that, I’ll forget this is supposed to be a tour.”

I flush, but I don’t look away. Because for the first time in years, I don’t want to.

He takes my hand again like it’s his right and leads me to a clearing overlooking the vines. The sky has started its descent, bleeding gold and fire into the horizon.

“Care to dance?” he asks.

I arch a brow. “With no music?”

His mouth lifts. “Since when did we ever need music?”

I let him pull me close, his hand at my waist, mine resting over his chest. We sway slowly, caught between past and present, grief and grace. The breeze tangles through my hair, carrying the scent of grapes and sun-warmed earth.

His heartbeat thuds steady under my palm. Mine is frantic, desperate to match his calm.

I tilt my head back to look at him. His eyes already watching me with a look that steals my breath.

“What?” I whisper.

His thumb brushes along my jaw, his touch warm and sure.

“I just needed to look at you,” he says, voice low.

The world narrows, shrinks until there’s only the space between us, the air thick with things unsaid. The hush before a storm. The promise of something that’s always been ours.

And then he kisses me.

It’s not rushed, not demanding, just firm, certain, like he’s sealing something between us. Like the years apart have vanished, leaving only this moment, this touch, this breath.

I melt into it.Into him.

My arms wrap around his neck, pulling him closer, letting myself fall into the warmth he’s offering without fear for the first time in years. My fingers slip into his hair, brushing against the soft strands as I hold him there, as if I could anchor myself to him.

His hand tightens at my waist, pulling me flush against him, and for a moment, the world falls away. There’s only his mouth on mine, steady and claiming, only his breath mingling with mine, only the thundering of my pulse that matches the beat of his heart.

When we break apart, I’m trembling, but I don’t pull away. I don’t drop my arms.

Instead, I tilt my head, brushing my lips against his once more—soft, testing, but with a heat that makes the air between us crackle.

His breath catches. His hand slides up my spine, fingers threading into my hair, holding me there as our foreheads press together.