Page 28 of Unravelled

“You wanted me to break,” he rasped against her neck, his voice dark, heady. “Congratulations, Mira.” He thrust against her, sharper this time, making her moan. "You win.”

She clung to him, her pulse wild as she moved with him, chasing the pressure, the sensation coiling tight inside her. The heat between them was unbearable now, a fire raging, unstoppable, pushing them both closer to the edge.

She cursed and his movements turning frantic, desperate. His breath on her was hot, erratic, his hands gripping her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“Mira,” His voice broke, “I can’t,” His jaw clenched, his entire body taut.

“Don’t stop,” she breathed, her voice almost a plea, her nails digging into his shoulders as she rocked against him harder, faster. The coil inside her tightened, about to snap.

Pleasure crashed over them, sharp and consuming, sending a shuddering cry past her lips. He followed an instant later, a strangled groan tearing from his throat as he ground himself against her, his entire body trembling.

They stayed like that, breathing hard, wrapped up in each other, their bodies still shaking in the aftermath.

He pressed a lingering kiss against her shoulder, his grip on her hips gentling, though he didn’t let her go.

Mira swallowed, her pulse still racing, her limbs weak.

She felt his breath against her skin, still uneven, still shaken.

Finally, after a heavy silence, he let out a breathless laugh, his lips brushing against her neck.

?? ?

Ren’s voice echoed in her ears, pulling her back."Mira…"

His forehead rested against hers, his breath unsteady, his grip on her hips gentling but not letting go.

His touch still anchored her, grounding her in a moment that felt like it was slipping through her fingers.

His eyes burned into hers, searching, waiting.

She blinked, her pulse pounding, her mind tangled in the haze of heat, of memory, of something.

"Did I..." she hesitated, pulse thrumming as the weight of the question pressed against her ribs. Was it the way she danced with him? The way her laughter lingered too long, her body too close? The doubt curled in her stomach, sharp and rising.

"Did I make you think ... that I wanted..." Her voice faltered. "Did I use you? To get under Tharion’s skin?"

Ren stilled. His expression didn’t shift, but something flickered behind his eyes. Pain, maybe. Disbelief. The air between them tightened.

“Mira.” He said her name like a plea.

"Tell me." Her voice came sharper this time, edged with annoyance.

Ren’s jaw tightened, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. His grip on her hips flexed, but he didn’t step away. Didn’t let her go.

"No," Ren said quietly, but there was steel beneath the softness. "You didn’t use me. I knew what I was doing." his voice steady but low.

A rush of relief, sharp and fleeting, before the weight of what she had just done slammed into her.

Until now. A sick, twisting ache unfurled in her stomach.

Mira shoved at his chest and staggered to the side.

Desperate to create space between them, between the reality of what she had just let happen.

"No... what have we...?" The words slipped for her, ragged and raw. Her chest rose and fell too fast, panic threading through the haze.

Ren reached for her, his face open now, concern etched in every line. "Mira,"

"Don’t!" Her voice cracked, her fingers curling into fists as rage, at herself, at him, at this entire Navigator-damned situation, burned through her like fire.

"I, " She dragged in a shuddering breath, trying to quell the sharp sting in her chest, in her ribs, in her very soul.

What had she done? She had kissed him and let him touch her.

And now, she could never take it back. Her breath hitched, shallow and sharp.

She turned away, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes, trying to think, trying to breathe.

The betrayal, her betrayal, coiled tight inside her, suffocating.

Tharion was still recovering. Still fevered, bruised, wounded. And she had been out here, tangled in another’s hands, letting herself forget the shape of her loyalty. Of what they were to each other. She had been faithful. Even without her memories, she had been faithful.

Until tonight. A sound escaped her, something ragged and small. Shame prickled across her skin like a scorching fire. She could still feel the warmth of Ren’s mouth on hers, the ghost of his hands at her waist, the touch that had once comforted now turned cruel by what it had cost.

Ren stepped around her. His hands found her face, gently, fingers trembling as though afraid she’d vanish beneath them.

Mira flinched, but didn’t pull away. Ren’s eyes burned into hers, his breath unsteady, his jaw tight.

He let her anger crash against him, let the silence stretch between them like a blade, but he did not look away.

His throat bobbed, words thick behind his teeth.

When they came, they were raw, stripped of anything but truth.

“He was lying there. Hurt. And I was here...” her voice cracked, then sharpened as the guilt curdled into something bitter.

“With you.” The words hissed out, laced with venom, not at Ren, not entirely, but at herself.

Her arms wrapped around her middle like she could hold herself together.

Ren’s thumbs brushed her cheeks, not to wipe away tears.

There were none, but to feel if she was still herself.

If she still let him touch that part of her.

“I didn’t come here to take anything from you,” he said. “I just… I saw you slipping. I just wanted to catch you...”

Her breath caught. The lantern light from the garden flickered around them, casting soft shadows across the stones.

Ren stepped back. But he didn’t let go. His fingers lingered down her neck, and arms, warm and steady, and wrapped around hers as if holding on just a little longer might change everything.

He exhaled, then took a step back as he slowly, painfully, let his grip slip away.

He was giving her space. Not enough for her to forget the way he had looked at her, the way he had felt. The way he wanted her.

Mira sucked in a breath like it might hold her together, then turned, too fast, too sharp, as if running before the weight of him pulled her under.

Her footsteps echoed hard against the stone corridors, too fast, too loud.

Her breath came in shallow bursts, sharp with panic and something else, something tangled and burning that still clung to her skin.

She pushed through the side entrance to the kitchens, her heart hammering in her chest. The cot was empty and the quilt she’d left folded at the foot of it was gone.

The cup of water she’d set by his side, untouched.

“Tharion?” she called out, but the name fell too quietly into the warm clatter of morning preparations. No one looked up. The staff moved around her in polite ignorance, too used to the quiet storms that came through to ask questions.

She turned on her heel, skirt catching around her calves as she took the back stairs two at a time, ignoring the voices echoing from the courtyard, the shimmer of lanterns glowing through the tall windows. Her breath caught in her throat as she reached their quarters and threw the door open.

Tharion stood in the center of the room, dressed in his official uniform, the tailored jacket buttoned high at the collar, brass fastenings gleaming faintly in the dim light.

The fabric was crisp, the deep earth-tone of it drawing out the sharp lines of his shoulders and the quiet authority he wore so naturally.

His hair had been combed back, though a few strands still clung stubbornly to his brow.

He looked steady on his feet, though pale.

There was a hint of exhaustion in his eyes, but also clarity. Presence.

And when he turned at the sound of the door, his gaze met hers. Mira froze in the doorway, her breath still ragged, her heart still racing for reasons she couldn’t yet name.

“You’re awake,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Tharion tilted his head slightly, and his smile, small, tired, was not quite a question, not quite a forgiveness.

“You weren’t there,” he said softly, adjusting the cuff at his wrist. “So I figured I’d meet you where you were going to be.”

She swallowed hard, her throat burning. “I didn’t think you’d be up”

“I know,” he said. Mira took a step in, her hands trembling at her sides.

“You should be resting.”

“I’ve done enough of that,” Tharion murmured.

His eyes stayed on her, quiet, unwavering.

“It’s the Festival of the Final Sun. You think I’d miss the one night the entire court pretends they still believe in the Navigators?

” He offered her the faintest smile. Tired, but real.

Then he glanced to the chair by the hearth, where a folded shape of fabric rested atop a box.

“A dress was delivered for you,” he said, nodding toward it. “Perrin’s handwriting.”

Mira’s gaze drifted toward the bundle. Dark silk and soft silver embroidery peeked out from between the folds.

It felt too fine now. Too soft. A thing from another life, from another Mira.

One who hadn’t seen hunger behind palace walls or heard the quiet desperation in Brahn’s voice.

Tharion leaned forward slightly. He studied her in silence for a long moment. Not demanding. Just… watching.

“You don’t have to wear it,” he said eventually, nodding again toward the dress. “But you should. You always loved the lanterns.”

She nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on the bundle of fabric, as if it might speak first. “I’ll change,” she whispered.

Tharion leaned back, his voice even softer. “I’ll wait.”

???

Mira stood near the vanity, fastening the final clasp of her gown.

The fabric draped over her like liquid midnight, catching in the candlelight, shimmering as if spun from the very essence of the night sky.

The black silk clung to her like a whispered secret, the delicate silver embroidery curling over the bodice like constellations mapped across her skin.

The long sleeves tapered at her wrists, the metallic thread catching with every movement, gleaming like fragments of stars.

The plunging neckline dipped just enough to command attention without surrendering to it, and a high slit traced one leg, subtle yet undeniably daring.

Every shift of fabric left a promise, a question, a fleeting invitation.

It was a masterpiece. And yet, it felt like armor.

She exhaled, pressing her palms against the cool vanity, trying to ground herself.

The weight of the evening pressed down on her chest, thick and unshakable.

She should feel something, pride, excitement, anticipation.

But all she felt was a quiet, sinking guilt.

She thought of the silk beneath her fingers. The weight of Ren’s hand on her waist.

A knock at the door shattered the stillness.

She turned as it opened. Tharion. He stepped inside, the warm glow of the lamps outlining his broad frame.

The insignia over his chest gleamed faintly, a mark of his station, his duty.

He looked at her, really looked at her. His gaze dragged over every inch of her, slow, deliberate, as if committing this version of her to memory.

The silence stretched just long enough for her to feel the weight of it settle between them.

Then, at last, his lips parted. “Thank you.” She blinked, the word catching her off guard with its quiet sincerity. Tharion’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Brahn told me you brought Cleric Perrin.” Mira’s breath caught. “I remember… not much,” he added, softer now. “But I remember you storming out.”

"Of course." she replied The room felt too still. Too small for everything pressing at the edges of her chest.

"You look stunning." The words landed softly between them. Softer than they should have been.

Mira swallowed. She wanted to feel something.

The rush, the thrill, the pull of familiarity.

She wanted his words to affect her the way they once had.

But all she could think about was another pair of hands.

Another voice, rough with need, murmuring her name in the dark.

Another touch, stolen in a moment she could never take back.

Guilt twisted through her like a blade. She forced a small smile, dipping her chin.

"Thank you." the weight of what she had done settled in her ribs like lead.

Tharion stepped forward. The scent of leather and something distinctly him, clean, sharp, familiar, drifted toward her.

He held out his arm. Mira hesitated. Just for a breath.

Then, moving through the ache in her chest, she placed her hand in the crook of his elbow.

His warmth bled through the layers of silk and embroidery, steady and unwavering. But it also felt wrong.

For a year, they had been floating around each other, orbiting without ever quite colliding. Holding on, waiting, hoping that time would mend what had frayed between them. That if they kept pretending, if they kept trying, things would click back into place.

But now she knew.

She had shattered them.