Her breath hitched—but she didn’t answer.
“Sloane was a mistake,” I said. “One I tried to fix. One that tried to own me.” Her gaze sharpened. “Your sister was a power play. One I agreed to for the sake of politics, not desire.”
And then I stepped even closer until I could feel her breathing.
“But you?” I said, voice nearly a whisper. “You were never supposed to be part of this game.”
She blinked.
“I didn’t choose you for power. I didn’t choose you because I had to. I chose you,” I said slowly, “because the second I saw you, everything else became irrelevant.”
She looked like she couldn’t breathe.
“I don’t want your crown,” I added. “I want your fight. I want your fire. I want the part of you that looks me in the eye when I’m bleeding and still refuses to kneel.”
She looked away, jaw tight.
And I did the one thing I didn’t want to do.
I stepped aside.
Let her walk past.
Didn’t reach for her.
Didn’t stop her.
Because if she came back—it had to be on her terms.
And if she didn’t?
Then I’d burn for her, anyway.
Chapter 21
Seph
I woke to silence.
The kind that settled heavy on my chest, like grief before it had a name.
Sunlight filtered through the sheer curtains, painting soft shadows across the room, but none of it touched me. None of it reached the hollow behind my ribs where something had started to splinter.
Last night lived on my skin like a bruise—the kiss, the blood, the way his rage tangled with something far more dangerous. Desire. Possession. Need.
And still, he hadn’t said a word since I walked away.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers to questions I didn’t know how to ask. The tension in the air was sharp—static building with nowhere to go. It crackled around me, a quiet reminder of everything still left unsaid.
I heard him moving through the house. His footsteps were deliberate, distant, too controlled—like he didn’t want to break the fragile peace we were both pretending wasn’t already shattered.
I hated that a part of me wanted to go to him.
I hated even more that I didn’t.
Pride held me hostage. So did the memory of Sloane—her voice like venom, her presence like a stain. I could still see her smile as she stood in my home. Our home. And the worst part? He’d let her in. He’d let her.
Maybe not physically. Maybe he wasn’t here.
