Page 153 of The Oath We Give

I trail kisses across her chest, working my way up the column of her neck leaning then in my wake as I slowly untie her wrists. When she’s free I take my time worship the raw skin.

“You here with me, Hex?” I murmur against her angry skin. I take my time, massaging her fingers and palms.

She knows what I’m asking. Knows I want to make sure she didn’t slip back to a time before me. A time she wasn’t safe.

Coraline blinks up at me, a soft smile pulling at the edges of her lips as she nods. “Always here with you.”

I let her stretch her arms, moving from between her thighs. But staying in bed with her. Letting my body curl around hers, pulling her into my chest.

My head falls into the crook of her neck.

She's warm and smells like sweat and sex.

Her body sinks into the bed, into my body, as she murmurs, "I'm pregnant."

I peer down at her, "What?"

"I'm pregnant." She grins, hiding her face in my chest, "Found out yesterday morning."

Coraline has given me everything I never thought I would have. A family of my own and love without conditions. I'm in awe of her constantly, her strength and dedication to those in her life. And now she's carrying my child, our babies very first home. What a lucky kid.

I never got to choose Rosemary. Our connection was circumstance, a gift from something beyond us to help us through our pain. That will never take away the love I have for her, because it was real and it saved me. But I never got to make a choice.

From the second I saw her, I chose Coraline. Today, tomorrow, and every day after. I will chose to love her, to give myself to her.

Because it could be no one else but her.

It's us, forever. Inevitable death and all.

Book made for [email protected]

THIRTY-SEVEN

FOREVER STYX

SILAS

Funerals markthe end of life.

It's swift, sharp and no matter how well prepared you were for death to take your loved one, it still hurts. Aches in a way you can never predict and the only bandaid, the only salve that will heal the wound is the one thing you want the least of.

Time.

It's the enemy. The thief. Saltwater over a fresh wound. Until one day it's not. Until one day you look down at the gnarled scar, no longer pink, and you're thankful for how distance from the pain has helped you grow.

"How are you doing, baby?" My mother's hand rests on my shoulder, giving me a gentle squeeze.

Her face is red, stained with tears that will take months to stop. Today, my mother buried her best friend. The person she chose to spend forever with, knowing forever isn't real.

Love is wicked that way. It's all consuming and full of so much hope it makes you believe you can outrun death, that you can catch forever if you hold on tight enough.

"I'm alright, mom." I tell her as we stand adjacent to Scott Hawthornes coffin, "Can you I do anything for you?"

She blinks up at me, batting the tears away with her hand, while she stares at me. I wonder if she's reminiscing on the days of my youth or trying not to break because I look so like my father.

"I'd like you to leave."

My eyes widen, brows furrowed. In my years of living, my mother has never said anything like that to me. I can feel my jaw unhinge as I stare at her open mouthed.