He snarls one last curse, turns, then vanishes in smoke and trees.
It’s eerily silent.
Krista kneels beside me. Her tears wet my face. I taste copper and regret. She holds my hand. I try to stand. I cannot. My body rages with pain, limbs numb, vision dimming.
She lifts me, drags me toward the porch. Her arms are under my shoulders. The lanterns swing overhead. The wards glow gold around doorways, windows. The house holds.
My blood seeps into the grass. I close my eyes. I feel her heart beside mine, beating, strong. She whispers promise words: “I will protect you. I believe you. You are home.”
And in that afterglow of pain and fierce magic, I think maybe this place is worth the wounds it carves into me.
CHAPTER 19
KRISTA
The dusk light filters through branches and softens against the cottage windows, making everything golden-sienna and forgiving. I move slowly across the room, carrying a bowl of warm cloths in one hand, herbs and salves in the other.
My heart is thudding in places I never thought would feel again. Hardin lies on the floor, back against the hearth, breaths shallow but steady. The curve of his chest rises and falls in flickering candlelight. Each rise looks fragile. Each fall pulls at something inside me.
I kneel beside him, lifting the torn fabric of his shirt gently; the wound at his thigh pulses beneath my fingers, edges ragged and raw. There’s blood, dark and sticky at first, then warming, bright with life again. I collect the cloth, dampened with a tea of yarrow and lavender, pressing it lightly to stem the bleeding.
Hardin’s jaw tightens, eyes closed. He doesn’t speak. I work quietly, bruised ribs and shallow cuts glowing in the lamplight, his skin drawn taut where pain pushes it.
“I’m here,” I say softly. My voice feels strange, large and tender, like reaching across a canyon I never thought I’d try to cross. “It’s me.”
His eyes flutter open. Pain warps his features, but there is recognition. Or something like it. “Krista,” he whispers. Voice low, rough from dried blood and sharp breaths. “You shouldn’t have?—”
“You saved everyone,” I say, pressing warm cloth beneath a torn sleeve, then layering on a salve that smells faintly of mint and iron. “You promised me you’d come back. And I believed you. You kept your promise.”
His face relaxes slightly. He squints up at me, moonlight and amber glow melding in his eyes. I mean to breathe, but I hold it instead, leaning forward, brushing a thumb over the edge of his scar where blade met flesh.
“You’re hurting,” I murmur.
“More than you know,” he says after a moment. His hand lifts weakly, touching mine. His fingers are trembling. “Krista.”
My heart clenches. I pull his hand into mine, letting warmth seep through the cool wound, letting him lean into me. I fold his arm gently across his chest so that his hand rests there, over the scar above his heart.
“I love you,” I say, voice small but certain, letting the words fill the room and settle between us. “I love you more than I was ever supposed to be able to love someone again.”
He stares at me like I have cracked open something ancient and real. His breath pauses. Then he reaches up and rests his palm on my cheek, thumb brushing hair away that is loose, curling with sweat. His touch is soft, more hesitant than I’ve ever seen him, as if he’s not sure he deserves gentleness.
“You are my mate,” he says finally. The words weigh heavy as an oath, grounding me, binding me in joy and fear both. I feel tears press behind my lids. Not shame or sorrow, just something vast and overwhelming, like I’ve been holding my breath for so long I forgot how to inhale.
I lean into him, pressing my forehead to his. We stay like that, listening to one another’s hearts, the crackle of fire in the hearth, the soft tick of the lanterns. Mari’s soft snore drifts upstairs, a lullaby and promise. Outside, I think I hear the Hollow breathe: trees swaying, wood settling, wards humming low as though they welcome me.
I rise, gathering clean linens and the tincture I mixed earlier, strong with rowan and moon water. Hardin makes a sound in his throat. Pain, gratitude, something raw. I press ointment into the wound, gentle motions that sting him, but less than fear would.
He winces, jaw clenching, but holds still, breathing through it. I wash off blood from splintered wood from his elbow, then wrap strips of cloth tight enough to forestall bleeding but not cut off feeling, knotting them with a chord of intention, a little protective charm I whispered under my breath as I tied.
“You always do this,” he says, voice hoarse. “Take care of me.”
“You always protect me,” I reply, voice catching. “Let me protect you now.”
He closes his eyes, leaning his head back, letting me settle his belt, adjust his posture, support him like I used to with Mari when scraped knees found our doorstep. I brush hair from his temples, fingers lingering at scars hidden beneath the flannel. I feel we’re fragile together but stronger for it. Love doesn’t make the pain go away. But it makes it possible to bear.
When I step away for water, I pause in the doorway. I glance at his face, pale in candlelight, breathing even, wounds dressed. I want to say so many things. I want to promise again that I’ll build wards sheathed in song and steel to hold back every threat that claws at our doors. I want to say I’m sorry for every time I doubted myself. But water calls me, and there is work tonight.
When I return, he’s shifted on his side, back to me, arm draped over one knee, shirt stained. He turns, face softenedby pain and moonlight. “Thank you,” he says. Not grand. Just sincere.
