I draw a deep breath, chest heavy. “It wasn’t me… or it was. But I didn’t hesitate. Because losing you—that would’ve killed me too.”
Her tears slip free. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I stand, step around to the med-drone’s panel, flexing wrist where the cuff snagged once. “This safehouse… it makes us ghosts. But I don’t want to hide anymore.”
She lifts her head. “You don’t still want that, do you?”
I turn to face her, heart in my throat. “No. I want to live—for real. With you.”
Her fingers brush my coat. “And what about the world you burned?”
I step forward, setting my palm on the cot rail, leaning close. “I’ll rebuild it. But starting with you.”
Tears trail down her cheeks. “Promise me… no more monsters.”
I inhale slow. “I can’t erase what I am. But I can choose when to unleash it.”
She looks into my eyes and nods, small but resolute. “Then choose wisely.”
I cross the room, sit beside her again, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead. “I swear it.”
A long moment passes between us. She blinks, voice soft as morning dew: “Stay.”
I squeeze her hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Outside,the station’s old walls sigh under the sound of distant traffic and the thrum of alert drones. But inside, we build a moment of stillness.
The med-drone finishes, hums, and dims. A soft light fades from Aria’s temples, but I move the shade to soften the glare. She lets her head fall back. Her eyes drift closed.
I stay with her, unwilling to move away. I cup her cheek—warm, steady, alive. My throat twists.
“You saved my soul,” I whisper.
Her lips part. She breathes in deep. “Now it’s your turn.”
I press a kiss to her forehead, then once more to her hair. “We’ll heal.”
The medbots give her permission to leave. I take her back to the safehouse, my hand on the small of her back. Like I’m afraid if I let go she’ll disappear again. We collapse into the bed, the exhaustion more mental than physical.
The safehouse is quiet, shadows dancing across metal walls softened by red filament lamps. The warmth from theemergency generator hums through the floor, a low thrum beneath my bare feet. I breathe in—slow, jagged—trying to ignore the tremble in my spine. But I’m not cold.
He’s standing there, shirtless. Tall. Ancient. A living monument to everything I’ve fought and everything I can’t fight anymore.
Aebon Rexx.
Seven feet of bone-black heat. His white hair spills down in disarray, and his red eyes hold no humor now. Just hunger. Measured. Contained. Barely.
“I should walk away,” I whisper.
“Then do it,” he replies, voice low, raw.
But I don’t.
I take a step forward.
He meets me halfway.
My hands reach his chest—skin like heated stone, ridges of bone and scar beneath. I can’t stop touching. Mapping. Memorizing. His breath hitches when I run my fingers down the line of his ribs, where the black of his skin meets ivory bone spurs like volcanic rock meeting lightning.
