Page 197 of Celestial Combat

He didn’t say anything.

And that silence –hissilence – was the worst answer of all.

I turned to walk away, heart pounding like it was trying to break out of my ribs.

But his hand caught me by the upper arm.

Not hard.

Not bruising.

Just enough to stop me.

“You don’t have to go back to New York,” he said, low and urgent. “You always said you wanted to travel. We can do that now.”

I took in a long, shaky breath, not turning to look at him.

When his grip loosened, I didn’t say a word. I just walked away.

Chapter 50

Present

Siberia, Russia

BY FIVE, THE SKY WAS already black – inky and oppressive beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. The snow outside had stopped, but the wind whispered through the birch trees like something restless. Shadows flickered across the hardwood floor as the fire crackled in the hearth. I sat in front of it, knees drawn close, my back leaning against the couch. The scent of burning pine and the stew we’d cooked earlier still lingered, grounding me in the silence of the room.

My tears had dried hours ago, leaving tight salt-trails across my cheeks. I hadn’t moved much since Zane left – if you could call it leaving. He’d walked out with no coat, just grabbed the keys and gone into the wilderness like he needed the cold more than oxygen.

I ate alone. I stared at the fire until it blurred. I waited. Then stopped waiting. And now I didn’t know what to do with myself.

The door creaked open.

I heard the crunch of snow on the welcome mat, the soft knock of boots against the floor. And then the footsteps – heavy, familiar. Zane.

I thought about standing up. About disappearing into the loft or the bathroom or the woods. But my body didn’t move. I just stayed there, staring into the flames.

Zane didn’t say a word as he approached. He didn’t sit on the couch or hover. He dropped to the thick, fluffy rug beside me, the heat of the fire painting his face in flickers of gold and shadow.

Without a word, he slipped a folded piece of paper into my hands.

I looked down.

Black ink on cream parchment – his usual sketch style. But this one was different. It wasn’t just me. It was us. He’d drawn himself, arms wrapped tightly around me like a shield, my face buried in his chest, his hand cradling the back of my head. I recognized the moment instantly – New York. That night on the rooftop, the one that felt like the world had cracked open but somehow we held the pieces together.

“You made me promise to show you every drawing I made of you,” he said, voice low, quiet against the roar of the fire.

A single tear slipped down my cheek and landed on the page, the black lines slightly smudging beneath the droplet. I blinked. It felt heavier than it should have.

Zane’s voice was barely a whisper. “You ground me. You make me want to stop running.”

I wiped my face with the sleeve of my sweater, still staring at the drawing, my throat aching.

“You didn’t have to go that far with Trevor,” I said. It came out softer than I expected. Less accusation, more ache.

Zane’s jaw tensed, his profile sharp in the shifting firelight. “I didn’t know any other way.”

And for the first time in days, I didn’t pull away. I didn’t leave.

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