Page 90 of Inevitable Endings
Maybe that had been my downfall.
That in my desperation to be seen, I allowed myself to be blind to the consequences of his gaze. But, in a strange way, I’m grateful for it. Grateful for the moments I had with him, especially in the end, even if they led to pain.
‘‘And that’s okay,’’ he reassures, his words soft but strong. ‘‘Because you saw him too. And we all carry burdens. Some of us heavier than others, but you acknowledged him too. You both acknowledged that mutual pain, or whatever it was. And that makes it real.’’
A shudder runs through me, but I don’t look away. The weight of Sawyer’s words settles in, like a soft blanket over the sharp edges of my heart. He’s right. It was real. In that fractured,painful way, it was real.
‘‘They say you have to love yourself first to love someone else,’’ Sawyer continues, his voice quiet but firm. ‘‘But that’s not true. Two broken people can repair the damage done. You’ve been brutally broken, Isabella, and yet still have the courage to be gentle. I’m sure he didn’t.’’
The words catch me off guard, as they always do. It’s the truth that cuts through all the things I’ve been too afraid to say, the truth I’ve been too afraid to admit. There’s an ache deep in my chest, a hollow place that’s never quite healed, but hearing Sawyer speak those words; about my courage, my softness—makes something shift. It’s a comfort, yes, but it’s also a reminder that the love I’ve given, even in its brokenness, has been real. Even with all the cracks, even with the trauma, it has been real.
I offer a weak smile, something fragile but genuine. I nod in acknowledgment, though I’m not sure I can fully grasp what he’s saying yet. The tears are close, but I don’t let them fall. Not just yet.
Sawyer’s gaze softens, but there’s an understanding there, a quiet recognition of all the things we’ve both been through, the unspoken struggles that have shaped us. And then, he says it—something unexpected, something I hadn’t anticipated.
‘‘But eventually,’’ he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, ‘‘he built up that courage to be gentle because of you.’’
A wave of something warm washes over me at the thought, something bittersweet but tender.
Sawyer looks at my stomach beneath the blanket. ‘‘Love doesn’t always require time or a face to be real,’’ Sawyer murmurs, his eyes watching me with that knowing, gentle gaze. ‘‘Sometimes it’s just a heartbeat, a whisper in the dark, a flicker of something that could have been. And that love you had—it’s still there, inside you. It doesn’t go away. You acknowledge it,and that’s enough for now.’’
For now.
Chapter 41
The Echoes of Ruin
Isabella
‘‘You’ll unmake me, won’t you?’’
His thumb caresses my cheek, rough palms hold my face in place.
‘‘Yes, does that scare you?’’
Desire gradually takes over, no simple need, like hunger, but a taunt, elastic compulsion. This urge to ravage.
As the ruler of Hell stands before me I feel horror. But as well as the horror, I feel a strange longing. They call him dangerous, but he is my safe.
The air thickens, charged, crackling with something restless, something on the verge of devouring. A shudder, barely restrained. A pulse, hammering beneath fragile skin. The space between narrows, dissolves, vanishes.
The scent of him; smoke and salt, something darker, something unnamable. Rough palms cradle, grip, demand. Teeth graze, just enough to tease, to promise. Muscles tighten, straining against the inevitable, against the unraveling.
Shackle marks circle his wrists, pale skin marred by the ghosts of restraints long broken. But even without chains, he is bound, to darkness, to power, to me.
A gasp, swallowed whole. A sigh, lost. The tremor of restraint, the tremble before surrender. And then—collapse.
The air stirs between us like a storm, heavy with the scentof temptation and consequence, thick with the unspoken. Every inch of space vibrates with the pull of a force neither of us can deny—an invisible thread that tugs us closer, closer until it feels as though the world itself might shatter beneath the weight of it. His eyes, black as midnight, burn into mine, and in them I see both everything I fear and everything I crave.
His fingers trace the line of my jaw, a quiet command wrapped in the gentlest of touches, as if testing my resolve. He knows how much I want, how far I would fall, how much I ache to be consumed by him. His mouth is a breath away from mine, teasing the edge of the moment, where all that exists is the promise of a touch that could either save or destroy.
‘‘You belong to me,’’ he says, low, almost a growl, and I feel it, every word, every syllable sinking deep into me, igniting something dark and primal within. The claim is not a question, but a certainty, and the weight of it presses down on me, a beautiful burden.
I should resist. I should turn away, pull back from the chaos that licks at the edges of my sanity, but I can’t. Not with him. Not with the devil who wears his darkness like a crown. He has broken me, piece by fragile piece, and I have let him, because in his ruin I find my own release.
He moves closer, closing the distance that remains between us, until I can feel the heat of his body seeping into mine. His breath, hot against my neck, sends a shudder through me, a raw and unfiltered tremor that betrays everything I try to keep hidden.
‘‘I’ve been waiting,’’ he whispers, and it’s not a confession—it’s a warning. His hands grasp my wrists, rough and unforgiving, pulling them above my head, anchoring me in place as if he owns every part of me. His touch burns, a brand that marks me as his, a mark that will never fade.
