His eyebrows pinch again. The relief in his expression gives way to loss or regret. He releases me and steps back, unbuttoning his shirt and peeling it away from his shoulder.
The horse tattoo and chains are gone.
“You’re free too.” The words leave my lips weighted with sadness.
Declan stares at his shoulder, dragging his fingers over bare skin like he expects the ink to reappear. He’s not smiling or celebrating, yet.
“I can’t feel it anymore.” He slowly shakes his head, stunned. His gaze flicks to the trees as if he’s already counting what his freedomdidn’treturn.
“No chains,” I say gently. “No more mark.”
Something hopeful flickers in his eyes. Possibility. A future that isn’t limited by iron and oaths.
He’s free. To go anywhere. Or do anything he wants.
From his dazed expression, I don’t think it’s sunk in what this freedom actually gives him.
Or what it takes fromus.
The Widow still faces the Sterling family plot, silent but not a threat. I promised to tell her story. And I will. Her truth deserves to be told. People should know the true history, so it’s never repeated again.
Declan drags a hand through his hair and blows out a relieved breath. He seems lighter. Not completely healed but no longer trapped.
“What happened?” he asks.
I open my mouth—then close it again. The curse that bound us is gone. Why do I still feel this connection to him?
“We’re free,” I say.
Why does our freedom have to taste like a farewell?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Emery
Sunlight streamsthrough the front windows of the Applewood Inn. The fog that’s clung to Crowsbridge Hollow since I arrived is gone, burned away by a bright, clear, ordinary morning.
Another benefit of breaking the curse?
I’m going to miss this place.
I’m going to miss?—
No.
Can’t go there.
“Ready, dear?” Mrs. Applewood asks, slipping behind the front desk.
My suitcases and bags are scattered around my feet. Even though I spent most nights at Declan’s, I hesitate before giving up my key. Mrs. Applewood raises an eyebrow, waiting.
I slide the key across the polished wood.
“Thank you.” She taps at the keyboard. The printer whirs and spits out a single sheet of paper.
I pull out my wallet, my credit card already between my fingers.
“Here you go.” She hands me the receipt, and I scan all the way to the bottom.
