A chill races through me. I clutch the notebook, forcing my breath steady.
“I never told Ares my favorite color is green,” I whisper.
Liam is already half-asleep again, oblivious, sinking back into the cushions with a peaceful sigh.
But my pulse pounds in my ears, because suddenly, all those moments where Ares seemed to anticipate me, to understand things I didn’t say…
They don’t feel accidental anymore.
41
LIAM
Waking feels like clawing my way out of deep water.
The world returns in slow, throbbing waves, my ribs humming in dull protest, my spine stiff as stone, every inch of me unsure if it wants to move at all. When my eyes finally pry open, I’m met not with panic or sterile light, but with the reassuring heaviness of Theo’s head rising and falling against my chest.
He is draped over me like a sleep-drunk cat, limbs tangled, mouth slack and leaking a thin trail of drool down my sternum. I lie still, staring at him fondly despite the soreness gnawing at my body. His breath warms my skin, his hair tickling my jawline each time he shifts. If I didn’t feel like death reheated, I might have laughed already.
The IV bag hanging over me is empty, its plastic crinkled in on itself as though even it is tired. Whatever numbing mercy they pumped through me last night has worn off, leaving behind an ache that reminds me that yes, at one point recently, I was dead.
A soft sound pulls my attention sideways. My sister is curled awkwardly in the chair beside the bed, slumped sideways with her chin propped on her fist to keep it from toppling forward. She must have been bone-deep exhausted to fall asleep in that position. Dark circles bruise her eyes; her cheeks look hollowed out by worry. I want to call out to her, but something in her expression, even in sleep, stops me. She’s earned those few more minutes of peace.
Theo stirs before she does. His head jerks up abruptly, nearly smacking my nose. His hand lands on my chest... right in the puddle of drool.
“Good morning,” I whisper, unable to help the small grin tugging at my lips.
He freezes. “Please tell me that isn’t mine.”
I let a laugh slip out, breathless and still a little ragged. “I’ve had worse bodily fluids on me apparently.”
He covers his face with a mortified groan, but the curve of his smile betrays him. He shifts closer, careful of my injuries, and I lean toward him, drawn like a magnet finding its pair. His mouth is warm when it meets mine, full of all the fear and relief neither of us has words for yet. When he trails kisses across my jaw, soft and reverent, something inside me finally settles.
“You are my muse,” I murmur against his lips. The confession comes out easier than I expect. Maybe dying once gives a man perspective.
He relaxes into me, forehead grazing mine, and for a moment the world narrows to just us and the slow, steady rhythm of breathing side by side.
Then movement flickers at the edge of my vision.
Sebastian has appeared in the doorway, gaze sweeping the room until it lands on me. On us. His expression is unreadable before softening into something relieved, grateful even. But his attention shifts again, sliding past me toward the chair beside the bed.
Harper is no longer asleep.
She sits stiffly upright, eyes wide and locked on Sebastian’s approach. There’s something tucked beneath her, the edge of a dark leather cover barely hidden under the cushion. She presses it down hastily the moment she realizes he’s here. Her gaze flicks to mine in a silent plea for me not to react.
I file that mystery away for later. Right now, Sebastian is already at my bedside, his hand coming down on my shoulder with a cautious gentleness I’m not used to seeing from him. His freckles glow brighter under the sunlight flooding through the tall windows, and I’m struck by how strangely peaceful he looks considering everything that happened.
“You’re looking better,” he says, voice light but threaded with something that sounds dangerously close to relief he doesn’t want acknowledged.
“I’m getting there,” I answer, shifting slowly. The ache radiates, but the agony from earlier is now a dull echo. “Little by little.”
He steps back to give me room, and I begin swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, determined to prove to them, and to myself, that I’m here, alive, whole enough to stand.
Across from us, Sebastian crosses the small space to Harper, the tension in his jaw softening the moment he really looks at her. He tilts her chin up with two fingers, the gesture meant to be sweet, though something about it feels more like a question he’s too afraid to voice.
“My love,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb along her cheekbone, “you could have come back to bed. That chair didn’t do you any favors.”
He eases her upright with an arm wrapped around her waist. Her shirt clings to her, wrinkled and thin, outlining ribs that hadn’t been so sharp a few weeks ago. She looks fragile in a way that unsettles me, like any touch might bruise.
