“You’ll leave,” I whisper, hollow, wrecked.
His lips brush my ear, soft and sharp all at once. “I can’t. Don’t you understand? I couldn’t leave you if I tried. You are the wound I’ll never fucking close.”
The words detonate inside me, crueler than any chain, darker than any filth. Because I believe him. Because I don’t want to. Because it’s the one truth that will ruin me more than all the rest.
“You’ll leave,” I choke out again, my voice a rasp against the wood, every word wet with tears. “You always leave, Dax. You’ll break me, and then you’ll go. That’s what you do. That’s all you do.”
His grip tightens in my hair, pulling my head back until his mouth is at my throat, his breath ragged and hot.
“Yeah,” he growls, his voice shredded, broken. “Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll have to. Maybe the world will rip me away from you again, maybe the war, maybe the ghosts in my fucking head.” His teeth scrape my skin, brutal. “But don’t you ever doubt this?—”
His chest slams against mine as he pins me tighter to the rail, his words raw, torn from the deepest, ugliest place inside him.
“I’ll always come back. You hear me? Always. Crawl, bleed, fucking burn—I’ll find my way back to you.” His lips crush against my ear, every word a vow that sounds more like a threat. “Because I love you, Butterfly. And I’d rather die a hundred times than stay gone from you once.”
My throat splits with a sob, my nails clawing at his arms just to keep myself upright. “Don’t say that—don’t make me believe it?—”
He snarls, shaking me, forcing me to face him. His eyes are wild, wet, storming with fury and devotion that tears me apart.
“You already believe it.” His mouth crashes to mine, brutal, desperate, like punishment and salvation at once. He breaks the kiss only long enough to rasp against my lips, “Because it’s the only truth I’ve ever had. And you’ll fucking know it every time I leave—and every time I come back.”
Chapter Thirty One
Cassandra
The church smells like flowers and old wood. Roses and lilies and polished pews, but none of it hides the sharp scent of nerves clinging to the air. The aisle stretches too long, too bright, sunlight spilling in fractured beams through stained glass. It should feel holy. Magical. Hopeful.
Instead, it feels like a funeral dressed up in white.
Not because Lola isn’t beautiful—God, she is. My best friend, radiant in lace, her smile trembling but real. Four months, and she swears this is forever. I should be happy for her. I should be clutching tissues, whispering I told you so, grinning like the proud maid of honour she begged me to be.
But all I can think is—how fragile everything is. How fast it can be ripped away.
My hand trembles around the bouquet, fingers tight enough on the stems to leave grooves in my skin. I hear vows, laughter, the soft catch in Lola’s throat when she says yes. Everyone around me melts. Sighs. Cheers.
And all I feel is a gaze burning into the side of my face.
Dax.
He’s in the second row, suit pressed but never sitting easy in it, his limp barely hidden when he walked in. He looks wrong here—too sharp, too scarred, too much war clinging to his skin in a place made of ribbons and promises. But he’s watching me, not them. Always me.
I should look away. Pretend. Smile for Lola.
But I can’t.
Because the way his eyes pin me—it feels like another vow. One no priest could ever sanctify. One carved from smoke and blood and something darker than love.
I swallow hard. Try to focus on Lola, on the ring sliding onto her finger, on her joy. But my body’s a traitor, leaning toward him like it knows where it belongs.
And for a second—just a second—I forget the flowers, the laughter, the veil.
All I see is him.
And all I hear is the word he whispered like a curse two nights ago, the one that still won’t leave my chest.
Love.
Applause ripples through the church. Hands clapping, voices rising, cameras flashing. Lola beams, veil slipping back as he kisses her, and the whole world pretends this is forever.
