Page 139
I’d know it was him whether he was dressed up or in tatters, but to see him like this is thrilling—his presence commanding the space effortlessly, exuding a gentleness and unshakable calm that steadies me in the crowd’s chaos. My everlasting centre-point of serenity.
Bran glances my way, his eyes widening in shock, mirroring the slack-jawed disbelief my brothers wore.
Before my footsteps can even whisper my approach, Finn turns, as if sensing me before I arrive.
The air vanishes from my lungs as I take him in—bathed in the fading light. He looks like a god carved from myth.
Up close, he’s even more devastating.
His hair, normally a touch wild, is pulled back, though a few strands fall rebelliously against his forehead and down the nape of his neck. It softens his look in a way that’s charming. He’s a picture of refinement and ruggedness, all at once.
His eyes travel over me, and the fire in them could set the room ablaze.
He lingers on every detail—from the exposing neckline to the daring skirt. My skin tingles under his focused gaze. It’s overwhelming, as if his fixated look alone can unravel me. Each movement of his throat as he swallows reveals the depth of his restraint.
“Finn,” Amelia says, cutting through the charged silence.
After what feels like an eternity, he blinks and glances over at Amelia, as if searching for an anchor.
“Evenin’, Amelia,” he rasps.
She nods slowly as her eyes flit between us with a playful smile. With a gentle pat on my arm, she declares, “Bran, my dear, follow me to the refreshment table.” Her tone brooks no argument.
Without another word, he follows Amelia, his movements comically stiff as they vanish into the crowd.
Then our eyes meet—and everything around us seems to pause, not in some grand, sweeping way, but in the still, breathless quiet of something about to begin.
He blinks once, slowly, as if he’s trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. His gaze moves over—reverently, longingly—as if he’s seeing something he hadn’t let himself believe could be real.
Finn clears his throat, his voice rougher than usual.
“Little Doe,” he murmurs—softer now. “You look… exceptional.”
His words hold meaning far heavier than their simplicity. The name—once playful, once a tease—now inspires an entirely unfamiliar emotion.
The air between us shimmers with unspoken words, a fragile thread pulling tighter with each breath we share. I ache for him to let me in, to shatter the barrier he holds so firmly in place, to offer me just one fragment of what hides behind those guarded, golden eyes.
One word. One touch. One moment that assures me this means as much to him as it does to me. That I am not just a fleeting thought, a brief spark in his endless storm, but something more. I’d give anything for proof, even the smallest hint, that this connection is not just borrowed time. That I could have more of him if I dared to reach for it.
“Our outfits match almost perfectly,” I murmur, my voice softer than I intend, as my fingers reach out to brush along the lapels of his jacket. Divine doesn’t do him justice. The deep crimson fabric, the intricate embellishments—it all seems crafted to make him look otherworldly, untouchable, yet here he stands, so close I can feel the heat radiating from him.
His expression doesn’t shift, but his hand moves, catching mine before it falls away.
His grip on me is firm and unyielding, its heat coursing through my body and igniting an ache deep within my core. My thighs clench instinctively, desperate for relief. If he notices, he gives no sign, his attention steadfast.
“It’s almost as if it were meant to be. Or a—not at all heavily orchestrated—coincidence,” he teases, affirming what we know to be true.
“I do wonder if Amelia was born with that meddlesome streak, or if it’s a skill she’s had to fine-tune over the years.”
He steps in closer, the space between us charged. His gaze flicks to my mouth, then slowly rises to meet mine again. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and releases it with a subtle exhale, as if he’s burying wicked intent.
“Must run in the family,” he murmurs, his voice huskier now.
Before I can fire back, his fingers slide along my wrist, slow and deliberate, as though he’s memorising the feel of my pulse.
I draw in a sharp breath, trying to hold his gaze, but it’s like looking directly into a flame.
“Let’s not pretend you don’t love it,” I whisper, breath hitching, the words a challenge.
