Page 79 of Stolen
I drop my hands from her throat, then I lift one, brushing my knuckles down her cheek.
She leans into it, and that small act unravels me.
“I’m not sorry I stole you,” I say, voice like a prayer or a curse—I don’t know which. “I’m not sorry I brought you here. Or claimed you. Or made you mine in every way I could.”
My hand moves to her neck, thumb brushing the place where my bite still pulses faintly with residual magic.
“I’m only sorry I didn’t deserve you when I did.”
Silence falls between us.
Not awkward.
Not empty.
Just charged with tension.With truth.
And then she whispers, “Do you deserve me now?”
I stare at her for a heartbeat too long.
Then I answer, with all the steel and softness I have, “I’m trying.”
Her eyes finally rise to mine.
There’s confusion in them.
Hurt.
Maybe even hope.
“I don’t want to be used,” she whispers. “Not by you. I won’t survive it.”
Gods, her words gut me.
“You are not a pawn,” I say. “You are the one thing in all the worlds I cannot seem to control. And for that, I am more grateful than you will ever know.”
She sways closer.
I swear the air crackles.
“I don’t know what I am to you, Alaric,” she says, “but I know what you’re becoming to me. And it scares the hell out of me.”
I touch her cheek again, cupping the face I know I can’t live without.
“Then let us be afraid together.”
She leans into my palm.
And for the first time in a thousand years, I feel like something ancient and broken inside me has begun to heal.
“My viyella,” I whisper.
Then I claim her mouth.
There’s no hesitation.
No battle of wills.
