She doesn’t. Her hand drifts to my chest, her palm splayed over my heart, as if she feels the thunder there.
A long silence stretches out. The quiet outside is absolute, broken only by the distant sound of birdsong and the city in the distance. The city sleeps, but in me, a storm rages. I feel it in my bones: the ache of wanting, the terror of losing, the contradiction of needing her so badly I’d break myself to keep her.
She shifts closer, tucking her head beneath my chin. For a moment I think she’ll ignore what I’ve said, let it slide past likeso many of my darker truths. Instead, she lingers there, letting the tension knot between us.
I smooth my palm down her back, holding her close. The paradox gnaws at me: Sera is both my weakness and my only salvation. I’ve lived my whole life knowing nothing could truly hurt me—not rivals, not betrayal, not loss.
Now, I know better. The softest part of me is exposed, and the only thing keeping me from ruin is her choosing, every day, not to run.
Her voice is faint, almost swallowed by the silence. “It scares me, how much I want to believe you. How much I want to belong to you.”
I shut my eyes, overwhelmed. “You already do. You always did. From the first night.”
She nestles into the crook of my arm. “If I left?”
The idea is a knife. “You won’t,” I answer, quiet but certain. “You couldn’t, not really. Even if you tried, I’d find you. I’d bring you back.”
Her breath stutters against my skin. The weight of the words presses into the room, heavy as stone. I stroke her hair, gentling my grip. “I’d let you choose, Sera. But you’d always choose me in the end. You know that as well as I do.”
We fall into a hush, bodies tangled, hearts unsteady. I hold her tighter, anchoring myself with the press of her body, the certainty of her presence. I tell myself I can keep her safe. That my violence, my power, can shield her from the world I’ve made.
Yet doubt gnaws at me, sly and patient. If I am her shield, I am also her prison. If I am her salvation, I am also the storm. The realization doesn’t soften my hold. It only makes me cling harder.
I need her. Need her faith, her fire, her anger and forgiveness. I need to be seen by her, even when I am at my worst.
Sera traces idle shapes on my chest. She says nothing, but her touch is a promise, a benediction and a brand. I let myself drift, exhaustion pulling at the edges of my mind. Even as I do, the need for her remains—a hunger that will never fade, a truth that unmans me.
I press my lips to her forehead, to her hair, breathing in the scent of her. “You are mine, little raven. Always. Even if it kills me.”
She doesn’t answer, but her arms tighten around me, her breath warm on my skin. The world could burn outside these walls, and I would not care—so long as she is here, in my arms, her heart beating with mine.
The night passes slow, the city still, my storm contained only by the girl tangled up with my soul. I am undone by her, and I am made whole. For her, I would burn everything to ash, again and again. I have never feared anything more, or wanted anything so much.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Seraphina
The table feels too large for just two people, the silverware gleaming under the low golden light. I press my palms against my knees, grounding myself in the warmth of the fire and the sharpness of Miron’s gaze.
He studies me, that faint smile flickering at the corner of his mouth. It’s not the look he gives his men—full of warning and weight—it’s something sharper, more personal. It unsettles me, but I refuse to look away.
“I mean it,” I say, my voice steady. “I won’t disappear into your shadow. If I’m here, it’s on my terms.”
He lifts his glass, swirling the wine. The fire’s reflection dances red across his knuckles. “Good.” There’s no sarcasm in the word, only approval. “There are enough ghosts haunting these halls. I prefer a woman with a spine.”
I force myself to eat, careful, measured bites. My appetite is gone; my nerves are too close to the surface. I catch Miron watching the line of my jaw, the twitch of my fingers, the set of my shoulders. He’s always watching, always measuring. This is a man who knows the value of every move, every word, every inch of power he gives or takes.
The meal is a dance of silence and glances, of tension wound tight as a violin string. When the plates are cleared, he pushes his chair back, the sound loud in the hush. “Come here.”
It isn’t a command, but it isn’t a request, either. I weigh my options, chin tilted high, then rise and move around the table, every step deliberate. He catches my wrist, tugging me down onto his lap, his arms caging me in.
He studies me as if looking for a secret, eyes locked to mine, no room for lies. “Why stay?” he asks, voice low, lips grazing my temple. “You could have run. You still could. I wouldn’t stop you.”
I want to laugh, or maybe cry. “You’d never let me go.”
His grip tightens, but only just. “No,” he admits, honest and brutal. “You could try. You haven’t.”
I run my fingers over his scars, letting the silence settle. “Maybe I’m just tired of running.” My voice is soft, but every word is true. “Maybe I want to see what happens if I stay.”
Miron’s hands are rough as they skim my waist, gentle as they press me closer. “I don’t want a prisoner, Sera. I want you as you are.” His breath stirs the hair at my ear. “Sharp, wild, impossible. I’d tear this world down before I let it break you.”
