We come together without urgency, without desperation, kissing slowly beneath the spray of the shower, tasting sweat and water and relief. When he lifts me into his arms, carrying me back toward the bedroom, I cling to him not because I’m afraid of falling but because I don’t want to let go.
The bed is enormous, all crisp sheets and dark wood and quiet luxury. He hasn’t slept here in two nights, I realize. The first night he spent in the bunks with the men, planning. Last night he was out in the woods, waging war.
The sight of the clean sheets makes something flutter low in my belly. This is the first time we’ve been here together like this,and the weight of that settles over me as he lays me down and follows, bracing himself above me with exquisite care.
“We don’t have to,” he says, his forehead resting against mine. “Not if?—”
“I want to,” I tell him, my hands sliding up his back, feeling the strength there, the warmth. “I want you.”
He kisses me slow and thoroughly, his body fitting to mine with a tenderness that makes my chest ache. We stay like that for a long time—just like that. Hands searching carefully, smoothing over bruises, little puffs of caught breath when something aches or hurts. Somewhere in the haze of it all, I lose myself, open myself to him.
When Mak finally moves inside me, it’s careful, controlled, every inch deliberate, and the sensation pulls a soft cry from my throat despite the soreness.
“Too much?” He asks immediately, going still.
I shake my head, my fingers digging into his shoulders. “It’s perfect.”
The sun is rising fully now, light spilling across the room and painting his skin in gold as we move together in a slow, intimate rhythm. There’s no rush, no hunger born of anger or temptation, only connection—only the quiet certainty of being chosen and choosing back.
Afterward, we lie tangled together, my head on his chest, his arm heavy and warm around my shoulders. The world feels impossibly far away, reduced to the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear and the soft play of light across the sheets.
“Mak,” I murmur, tracing idle patterns over his skin and the scars there. Many more will be added after last night.
“Yes.”
“I saw the letter,” I say quietly. “The one you wrote to Andi.”
He goes utterly still. I can feel him holding his breath, can feel the tension coil beneath my palm.
“I love you,” I repeat softly, lifting my head just enough to look at him. “She’ll love you, too. If you want to be involved.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he exhales, slow and deep, and pulls me closer, pressing his lips to my hair.
“I couldn’t stop myself from loving her,” he murmurs. “From loving you both.”
Chapter 32
Makari
Istand at the end of David and Katherine’s driveway longer than I need to, my hands in the pockets of my coat, my attention fixed on the narrow path that leads up to the front steps. The house looks like it belongs in a different life than mine—all pale siding and neat lines, hydrangeas blooming too brightly along the porch rail. It smells like freshly cut grass and warm pavement, summer pressing in from all sides, and I have the strange sense that if I don’t move soon, I’ll be rooted here forever.
Two days.
That’s how long it’s been since the woods swallowed blood and secrets again, since Eric’s voice went quiet and the ground closed over another problem that can never be spoken of. Two days since I brought Roxanne home broken and shaking. Two days since I promised myself that whatever I was before her, would never touch her again. Dima did what I asked. He always does. He returned her family to Cambridge quietly, efficiently. Now they’ll be knit back together, without the threat of Eric and his past hanging over them.
Roxanne steps onto the front walk, her pace slowing the closer she gets to the house, and I can see the momenther composure cracks. She presses a hand to her mouth, her shoulders hitching slightly as the front door opens and Andrea appears in the doorway like a burst of light.
“Mama!”
The word hits me square in the chest.
Roxy drops her bag and sinks to her knees just in time to catch Andrea as she barrels forward, arms flung wide, hair flying loose behind her. They collide with a laugh and a sob all tangled together, Roxy’s arms wrapping tight around her daughter as if she’s afraid she might disappear again if she loosens her grip.
“I thought I dreamed you,” Andrea says breathlessly, her hands clutching at Roxy’s shirt. “Grandma said you were coming, but I thought?—”
“I’m here,” Roxy murmurs, pressing her face into Andrea’s hair. “I promise. I’m here. I’m sorry we had to be away from each other.”
I stay where I am, suddenly unsure of my place in this moment, acutely aware of the weight of my boots on the driveway, the width of my shoulders, the way I don’t belong in scenes like this.
