“You don’t have to thank me,” I whisper. “If you died, I would never forgive myself.”
He scoffs softly—a laugh edged with sorrow. “That would make two broken hearts.”
“You’re still here,” I say. I reach out, placing my hand over his, where his ribs rise and fall. “That counts.”
His eyes meet mine. There’s light there. Falling, glowing, not extinguished. And I fear the dawn might bring new dangers, but in this room, in this moment, there is nothing but our hearts pressing loud in the quiet.
Mari wanders down the stairs, sleepy and tousled, eyes wide in half-dream. She climbs into my lap quietly, wrapping her arms around my waist. Her small face against my chest, I feel the pulse of her magic beneath her skin. It flickers faintly: silver light that doesn’t turn heads tonight. Hidden and radiant.
I press my lips to her hair and whisper words meant only for her: “You are holy magic, child. Your mother does not fear you.”
Hardin smiles, pain-softened, and presses another kiss to Mari’s crown, then rests his cheek against mine. “She will protect you both,” I say.
“She already does,” he answers.
When the dawnstarts to pale the edges of night beyond the windows, I step out on the porch, wet cloths in hand, to rinse what remains of salve and blood under the clear morning sky. Hardin follows, leaning heavily on me. I support his arm as he stands; he’s steady but fragile. He shoulders the burden of his own wounds and the weight of what he’s fought for. I offer him water in a flask, hands shaking slightly, sun cold on my back but warmth in my chest.
He takes it, gulping. Eyes closed. His chin lifts. “You’re part of this Hollow now,” I tell him. “They accept me.”
He looks at me. Pain and wonder mingle in his eyes. “They do.”
In that moment I sense wood and wind and ancient roots hum beneath the soil, a low welcome. From windows, faces appear—neighbors, townsfolk, children—smiling softly in dawn glow, seeing us not as outsiders but as part of the land, part of something sacred.
I lean toward him, voice tender. “I trust you.”
He squeezes my hand, breath shallow but certain. “I trust you.”
We stay that way, arms entwined, blood quieting, hearts wild in peace. The wound will scar. The memories will ache. But love has etched its claim on us stronger than fear ever managed.
The Hollow accepts us in its quiet promise: not because we are perfect, but because our bond was forged in fire and warded by love.
CHAPTER 20
HARDIN
Her fingers tremble as they work the buttons of my flannel. The firelight catches the gold in her eyes, and at last, there is no shadow of fear in them. Only a deep, quiet hunger that mirrors my own. I cover her hands with mine, stilling them.
“Let me.”
I shrug the fabric from my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor beside the hearth rug. Her breath hitches as my hands find the hem of her sweater, lifting it over her head. Her curls tumble free, a dark cascade against her pale skin. She is all softness and warmth, and when my palms slide up her sides, she arches into the touch.
“You’re sure,” I murmur against her throat, my voice a low rumble. It’s not a question, but a final check. A last line of defense I am desperate for her to break.
Her answer is a soft sigh as she guides my mouth to hers. “I have never been more sure of anything.”
Her kiss is not hesitant. It is a claiming. Her tongue meets mine, and a groan tears from my chest. My hands find the clasp of her bra, fumbling for a moment before it gives way. She is bare before me, and the sight steals the air from my lungs.
I lower us both to the rug, my body covering hers. The heat of the fire licks at our skin. I worship her with my mouth, tracing the curve of her breast, the dip of her navel, until she is writhing beneath me, her fingers tangled in my braid.
“Hardin, please.”
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her jeans, peeling them down her hips along with her underwear. She kicks them away, and then she is bare, open to me. Her scent fills my head. Something uniquelyher. My cock aches, thick and heavy against my own jeans.
She reaches for me, her small hands working the buckle of my belt with an urgency that makes my blood sing. I help her, shoving the denim down my thighs. When I am free, her hand wraps around my length, and my vision blurs for a second. Her touch is fire and salvation.
She strokes me gently, cautiously, building up her confidence. Then, she takes me into her mouth. Warmth overtakes me, as enthusiasm seemingly takes her.
"Stop," I finally say, gently pushing her off of my cock. "I'm not finishing so soon."
