Page 93 of Break Her Heart
His hand caught mine, firm and warm, as he spun me again. The corners of his mouth quirked in that maddening, knowingway, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe. He wasn’t watching from afar tonight.
He was dancing with me.
I laughed breathlessly, stumbling a little as he pulled me through the sea of bodies, the music spinning faster and louder around us.
“I don’t know why you chose to live in town. This is amazing.”
He caught me with an arm around my waist, steadying me. “I never had something worth staying for.”
The way he looked at me then stole whatever breath I had left.
* * *
I woke slowly, the weight of sleep still thick in my limbs after we spent most of the night dancing. The bed was warm, the air around it cool. But something felt… off.
The other side of the bed was empty.
My eyes opened fully, and I listened. A faint sound in the washroom. He was in there.
I sat up, the sheet sliding down my bare skin, and let the silence stretch. It was rare to wake without him beside me. Rare to feel alone, even for a moment.
My feet hit the floor softly as I stood, brushing the tangled mess of hair from my face. I stretched slowly, my muscles still sore from the night before.
That’s when I saw it.
Draped over the back of the cushioned chair across the room was a dress. Deep purple. Long-sleeved. Familiar.
Too familiar.
I went still.
Even from across the room, I recognized the stitching. The particular bend in the shape of the sleeves. The way the hem had been slightly uneven, not from carelessness, but because Mama had run out of the proper thread and refused to wait another day to finish it. I staggered forward a step. No. It couldn’t be.
But it was.
I nearly fell to my knees as I crossed the room. My hand reached for it with a tremble I couldn’t stop. Fingers brushing fabric. Soft. Worn in places. Real. I lifted the dress from the chair, clutching it to my chest.
My mother made this.
My breath shuddered as the weight of it sank into me. The past, the loss, the impossible tenderness of it being here—of it surviving. I thought I’d never see another one of her creations after finding our home burnt to ashes. Tears welled in my eyes before I could blink them away.
How did he find this?
The washroom door creaked open behind me. I heard his steps cross the floor. “I was hoping you’d find it.”
I turned, the dress still clutched in my hands.
August stood there, steam curling faintly behind him from the room he’d just left. His white-blond hair was damp, pushed back from his face. Droplets traced the lines of his chest, catching on the ridges of muscle, making him look less like a man and more like something carved from divine hands.
A god, in every sense of the word.
But it was his expression that undid me. He lit up when he saw I was holding the dress, like the moment mattered as much to him as it did to me. Like he knew exactly what this meant.
“Where did you find this?”
He hesitated, then ran a hand through his damp hair. “When you visit your brother every week, I… go into town, too.”
I blinked at him. “What?”
