Page 152 of Mystic's Sunrise

When our eyes met, his gaze was tired. Cautious. But not closed off.

I reached up, fingers trembling, and brushed along the edge of his jaw. Slow. Careful. Not to startle him. Not to push.

Just to tell him, without words, that I was still here.

“I’m not leaving,” I said softly.

His throat worked around a slow, uncertain swallow. His fingers twitched once against the sheets, like he didn’t trust himself to reach for me.

“I mean it,” I breathed. “Not ever.”

Something flickered in his eyes. A shift. A crack in the pain he’d been holding. Relief and hope, and in that moment, the silence between us didn’t feel like punishment anymore.

It felt like peace.

I didn’t need him to speak. Not tonight. Not yet.

All I needed was the steady rhythm of his breathing beneath my cheek. The warmth of his skin. The way he didn’t pull away.

And when he finally moved—slow, hesitant—his arm came around me like he wasn’t sure he had the right, but couldn’t stand to be without me.

I closed my eyes. I didn’t know how long we stayed like that, his arm across my back, my head tucked beneath his chin, the slow rise and fall of his chest calming the storm still churning inside me.

But at some point, something shifted.

Not in his body, not in mine, but in the space between us.

I moved first, not much, just a tilt of my head, just enough to look up at him, to see the outline of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheeks in the dim light.

He didn’t look at me right away.

Not until I touched him.

My fingertips brushed lightly against his side, just above his ribs, and I felt the breath stutter in his lungs.

His hand slid up slowly, brushing the curve of my spine like he was memorizing it all over again, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he moved too fast. And maybe I would’ve—if he hadn’t looked at me the way he did just then.

Like I was still his. Like I hadn’t already run. Like I hadn’t already hurt him.

My fingers tangled in the front of his shirt, holding on, not to pull him closer, but to ground myself. Because everything about him, his warmth, his scent, the quiet patience in his touch—was unraveling me.

When he leaned in, it was a kiss made of hunger and heat.

It wasn’t reverent or soft and I returned his kiss with a hunger of my own.

CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

I THOUGHT THATwould be enough.

The way she came to me. The way she held on.

The way she whispered that she didn’t want to fight anymore.

For the first time in days, I could breathe. Just…breathe.

Her body was soft against mine, warm and real and steady, her fingers curled loosely in the fabric of my shirt like she needed that small connection to keep from falling apart.

And I would’ve stayed like that all night. Still. Silent. Content just to feel her breath against my skin.

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