And now I’m not.
The realization crashed over me with the force of revelation.I am not his anymore. I am free. Then my sobs intensified, wracking my body with violent tremors.
My hands reached for Rowan instinctively, and he wrapped me in his arms without hesitation. He pulled me against his chest, one hand cradling the back of my head while the other pressed against my spine, holding me together while I fell apart.
He whispered words of affirmation I wasn’t sure I believed, his voice a low rumble against my ear. “You are loved. You are safe. You are with me.”
He nuzzled into my hair as the wails began in earnest—animal sounds I didn’t recognize as coming from my own throat, grief so profound it had no language.
I was empty, pouring years of rage and frustration and shame and terror into him. My fists pounded against his chest, beating against solid muscle, needing to hit something, to hurt something the way I’d been hurt. He merely held me tighter, absorbing every blow without flinching.
“You are strength,” he whispered into my hair. “You are fire, Violet. You may have broken, but you are the metal that has been reforged in flame. You are the weapon you have become now.”
The words shouldn’t have helped. Shouldn’t have penetrated the storm of grief consuming me.
But they did.
I drowned in memory and present simultaneously—smelling the warehouse’s mildew and Rowan’s pine scent, feeling Edward’s hands and Rowan’s gentle hold, hearing my own screams and Rowan’s steady heartbeat against my ear.
I was drowning, and Rowan was my anchor. He led me both into the deep abyss of my endless sea of pain and simultaneously towards the light of salvation, refusing to let me drown alone in either.
I didn’t know when it began—couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment—but the truth of it crashed into me in relentless waves.
I had always felt safe with him. Even when I’d antagonized him, pushed his buttons, dared him to retaliate—I’d never once feared his response. He was my pillar, holding me with unwavering strength and those icy eyes that always seemed to see straight through every defense I’d constructed.
“Rowan.” I gasped his name, searching for something—air, grounding,him.
I clutched at his shirt, my skin suddenly on fire again. But this wasn’t the drug-induced fever from last night. This was something else entirely.
“Rowan, I need. . .” I struggled to articulate what was happening, my body responding to his proximity, his scent, the safety of his arms with a desire that felt overwhelming.
He tightened his embrace, one hand stroking down my spine in soothing repetition. “Shh,volchok. I am here. Whatever you need, you only need to ask.”
The endearment slipped out so naturally, as if he’d been calling me that for years.
The fire surged through me, hot and unrelenting. I began to shake, but not from grief this time. The agony of emotional pain was being replaced by wildfire, desire coursing through my veins like molten metal.
It should feel wrong. I’d just confessed the horror of my previous life, sobbed in his arms like a broken child. My eyes were swollen, my face blotchy, my nose running.
And yet.
He’d accepted me. Accepted the impossible nature of my rebirth without question, already familiar with Levi and Charlie’s situation. He’d led me through my breakdown with a calm, steady presence. He was everything I’d lacked in my other life—patience where Edward had been cruel, gentleness where I’d known only violence, choice where I’d had none.
I craved him the way the earth craved spring after endless winter, the way life and death danced in their eternal cycle. The world had been twisting and turning towards this moment of acceptance and absolutes, and I was done fighting it.
I shoved hard against his chest, expecting resistance.
To my surprise, he let me push him back against the headboard. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, and I recognized that look—wildfire to match my own.
We stared at each other, the silence pregnant with implications neither of us was willing to voice first. I trailed my gaze down from his blown pupils to his lips, watching his mouth with rapt fascination. My tongue darted out to wet my own lips, and I watched his eyes track the movement.
I wanted to taste him. Needed to.
He must have felt it radiating from me because he started to protest, his voice carrying a low warning. “Violet. . .”
Don’t. Don’t ruin this with logic or reason or regret we might feel later.
I silenced him with a searing kiss.
