Page 33 of Second Chance with the Half-Elf
His teeth sink into my shoulder as he comes, a guttural snarl vibrating my spine. I feel him pulse inside me, hot and endless.We collapse sideways onto the floor, his arm caging my ribs, cock still twitching in my pussy.
Rain peppers the roof.
His breathing evens into low tides against my neck. I count three ship's bells from the harbor—midnight anchoring itself in my ribs. My leg twitches under the deadweight of his thigh.
I slip free like a fish from a net.
Dressing in the dark, my fingers tangle in bra straps turned inside out. His shirt from the boardwalk rests on the armchair, smelling of sweat and cedar. I hurl it toward the laundry pile. It catches the edge of Aeron's open nightstand drawer instead.
Moonlight reveals the compass we found at sixteen, its glass fogged with age. Our initials carved on the journal beneath it, bracketed by a lopsided heart.
"Sentimental prick." My whisper cracks.
A floorboard creaks as I step into boots. Aeron shifts, silver hair spilling across my pillow. His hand slides across cold sheets, fingers curling into emptiness.
The Nikon weighs heavy around my neck. I pause at the door, thumbnail digging into the strap's frayed edge. Rain taps Morse code warnings on the roof.
And without another sound, I slip out, unsure where I'm even going.
CHAPTER 12
AERON
The first thing I register is the cold.
Not the chill in the air, though the draft from the broken window hinge still whistles when the wind shifts. Not the cool wood beneath my back where I’ve slid halfway off the couch. No—this cold is quieter. Meaner. A space that used to be warm that suddenly isn’t.
I blink, heart already racing, and reach for her.
But the blanket’s empty.
No Evie.
Just the faint scent of her skin on the throw—the salt and wildflowers and storm—fading by the second.
I sit up too fast. My shoulder protests. The fire’s died to embers. The living room’s dim, gray morning filtering in through sea-glass windows.
“Evie?” I call, low, even though I know the answer.
Nothing.
I rub a hand down my face, grit grinding against my palms. Her boots are gone. Bag, too. No note. No sound. Not even a damn whisper on the air.
I stare at the space she used to be in, trying to make sense of the hollow it’s left behind. And then I do the one thing I swore I’d never do again.
I blame myself.
I knew better than to think one night would change anything. That touching her—holding her—would undo years of absence. Running. Silence so sharp it still bleeds when I breathe too deep.
She’s like the sea. Beautiful. Wild. Unruly.
And no matter how much you learn its moods, sometimes it just swallows things whole.
So I don’t chase her.
Instead, I stand, pull on my shirt slow, and tell myself to let her go again.
Because what else can I do?
