Page 53 of Sweet Doe
It always was.
We break apart slowly and then I press my forehead to hers. “We ready?”
She nods.
But then, just as I turn to open the door, she freezes.
It’s the smallest hesitation. Barely even a pause. But I feel it. Like a blade between my ribs.
“Sloan.” My voice is quiet. Murderous. “Don’t.”
“I’m not—” she starts, but I cut her off.
“I saw it. That second of doubt.”
She lowers her eyes.
I grip her chin, forcing her to look at me. “There’s no going back. Not now. We either walk out that door together or we don’t walk out at all.”
Her throat bobs with the force of her swallow. “I know.”
“I need to hear it.”
She takes a shaky breath. “I choose you.”
“Say it again.”
“I choose you, Asher. All of it. Whatever comes next.”
It’s enough. It has to be.
I grab my coat from the hook, shove the last of the gear into my pack, and sling the rifle over my back. Every movement feels too sharp, too everlasting. Behind me, Sloan rises to her feet, quiet but steady. Her eyes meet mine, and they don’t flinch this time. There’s no more shaking in her hands. Just that look—like she’s ready to follow me into hell and light the match herself.
I reach for the doorknob and hesitate for the briefest second.
This cabin was so much more than its appearance. It was the first place I ever felt like I could breathe without someone telling me I shouldn’t exist. It held my rage, my solitude, my survival. It was mine when nothing else was. I bled for it. Built every part of it with my own hands like I could hammer myself into something worth keeping.
But it was never home.
Not really.
Not until her, and now I’m leaving it behind. Because for the first time in my life, someone chose to stay.
After being cast aside like a burden by the people who were supposed to love me. After being told I was too much, too broken, too angry. After growing up clawing for scraps of affection I’d never get, I finally know what it feels like to be chosen. Not out of obligation. Not out of pity. But because she wants me.Allof me. The fucked-up, fractured, dangerous version of me I’ve never been able to bury.
And I’m not letting go of that. Not ever.
I open the door.
Cold rushes in, slicing down my spine, biting into my jaw, ripping the warmth from the air in one brutal breath. The wind howls through the trees like the ghosts of every version of me I had to kill just to survive. But I don’t feel it. Not with her hand in mine, standing beside me, defiant and breathtaking, while the whole fucking world behind us collapses into ruin.
I give the place one last look.
The window she stared out of when she thought I wasn’t looking. The fire pit. The blood on the snow. The ghosts.
Then I turn my back on it all.
“Let’s go,” I say.
