“In the messy middle of healing?” Tears press against my eyes. “I’ve spent so long building the appearance of being okay, I’d forgotten what it feels like to actually become it.”
The Tower gave me permission to move forward, burn myself down, and rise from the ashes like a phoenix. Declan did too. But more importantly,Ihave finally given myself permission to stop performing. Tostop contorting into something worthy. To stop chasing validation like it’s a prize to be won with perfection.
This experience, this kingdom’s magick, has awakened a part of me, brittle and buried, and I know if I let it rise into the light, I’ll never be able to shove it back down into the dark.
But maybe that’s the point.
“Do you know what that looks like for you?” I ask. “Moving forward. Living the life you want. Healing.”
He blinks like the idea hasn’t fully landed.
I lay my hand on top of his. “Your softness can’t only be for me. You have to turn it inward too.”
He looks down, lashes casting shadows over the sharp lines of his stubbled cheeks. “It’s easier when I’m…” He searches for the word, jaw flexing. “Checking the boxes.”
“Is it?” I lift my hand and trace the sandpaper edge of his jaw. “Because what I just saw didn’t look easy.”
His eyelids shutter for half a second. “I don’t know how to bring that other version of myself back. The one who knew how to live life for himself.”
“You don’t have to bring him back. He never left.” I press my palm flat to his chest, over the steady beat of his heart. “He’s right here. He just got buried. But while we’ve been here, I’ve seen him. He’s fun,” I continue, an almost cheesy grin pulling at my lips. “A kind, knight-in-shining-armor type. And in spite of the fact that I’ve seen him shove five figs in his mouth at once, he’s ridiculously sexy.”
His brows lifts, mouth quirking. “You think he’s sexy?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Occasionally. Under very specific lighting.”
“Specific lighting?” he echoes, his hands sliding intoplace around my waist like he already knows the blueprint of my body.
“Moonlight with a dimming fire. Maybe a little ash smudged across his jaw.” I brush my thumb over the stubble at his chin. “You know…hypothetically.”
He exhales a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, then pulls me flush to him, one hand sweeping up my spine with aching slowness. His chest presses to mine, solid and warm. Then he lowers his head and buries his face in the curve of my neck, breath hot against my skin.
“Are you flirting with me, Amanda?”
My fingers slide into his hair, damp with sweat from the Tower’s heat and flame. Pulse skipping, I turn my face toward his, a slow, wicked smile curving my lips. “I hope to do a lot more than flirt.”
Declan’s lips are soft when they brush mine once, twice, testing the shape of us. His hand slides to my jaw, and he tilts my face enough to open me to him. A promise written in the way his lips part mine.
When he deepens the kiss, I meet him halfway, melting into him inch by inch.
His tongue strokes mine with unhurried intensity, learning me, tasting me. Like every slow glide is a question, and every sigh I give in return is the answer. His thick fingers splay against the small of my back, and the contact sends a pulse of heat up my spine.
I sigh into his mouth, opening wider, burning hotter. His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I gasp, the sound echoing off the Tower columns. He groans low in his throat, the vibration sinking straight into my bones.
The more he kisses me, touches me, the more of myself I want to give. The whole, broken, burning truth.
“Declan—”
His name slips out before I know what I mean to say. There’s so much rising at once—want, ache, uncertainty, the edge of something that feels like surrender.
He pulls me closer, one arm tightening around my waist, the other sliding higher up my back, palm pressing flat between my shoulder blades.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. His voice is gravel and honey, rough and sweet.
My knees buckle, and I collapse into him fully, letting him take my weight. Letting him hold it. Letting him hold me.
His hands move slowly up my arms like he’s afraid that one wrong touch might fracture whatever fragile, sacred thing has opened between us. His fingers trail beneath the loose edges of my wrap and find the tie at my waist. He pulls the string and pushes it away, knuckles brushing my ribs, leaving trails of fire behind.
He pushes the silk, and the wrap slips from my shoulders. Before it’s even reached the sandy stones, I reach for him, needing him closer, his skin against mine. My hands slide under his shirt, palms skimming the ridges of muscle carved along his stomach.
