“You stayed,” I whisper. My voice comes out rough, barely there.
There’s a pause.
“I stayed.”
The memory surfaces—that night at the sanctuary when he came into my room. When I was breaking and he held me together even though it cost him. The way his control cracked just enough to let me feel safe.
This time, I reach for him.
I shift slowly—everything protests—and reach back, finding his wrist. Tug gently.
He goes still.
“Please,” I manage.
For a second I think he’ll say no. That he’ll pull back like he always does, wrap himself in that distance he uses like armor.
But he doesn’t.
He moves closer, and I take his arm and pull it around me, guiding his hand to rest over my ribs where I’m sure he can feel my heart beating too fast.
He goes completely still.
“Bree—”
“You did this for me once,” I whisper. “Let me do it for you.”
His breath catches. I feel the tension in his whole body, the war between what he wants and what he thinks he should do. But slowly—so slowly—he exhales, and I feel him relax.
The Ether responds.
Silver mist curls around us, warm and gentle, threading between us. It glows brighter where we touch, pulsing softly.
Stellan’s forehead drops to my shoulder and I feel the shudder that runs through him—relief or exhaustion or something deeper. His hand tightens slightly over my ribs, holding on.
“You’re alive,” he murmurs against my hair. Not a question. A promise.
“I’m alive,” I say quietly.
We just breathe together for a while. The Ether hums, wrapping us in light that doesn’t hurt—just warms. Just holds.
I let my eyes drift closed. Exhaustion pulls at me again, but this time it doesn’t feel like drowning.
It feels like I can finally rest.
Chapter 11
Bree
I’m so comfortable. The thought drifts through my mind slowly, lazy. I shift closer to the heat at my back, sighing as I settle deeper into it.
No cold. No screaming. No chains.
Just this. Just warmth and the slow rise and fall of breathing that isn’t mine.
My body feels different. Not heavy. Not aching. For the first time in—god, I don’t even know how long—I feel good. Really good. Like my skin fits again. Like my nerves remember how to feel something other than pain.
I open my eyes slowly, letting the soft morning light filter in through silk curtains I remember from the last time I woke up.
