Page 101 of The Last Stitch

Neither of them moved.

My breath was a blade in my throat.

And then, slowly, August’s grip loosened. His fingers undid her cuffs, his knuckles white, his breath measured.

Mira stumbled back, blinking in shock.

“Go.”

She didn’t move. She didn’t trust it. I didn’t blame her.

August’s jaw clenched. He looked at her then—really looked at her. And for the first time, I saw it.

Hesitation.

His mask slipped. Just for a second. And then, his expression hardened. “I said go. Before I change my mind.”

Mira’s legs finally obeyed. She ran. I didn’t.

I pressed myself into the shadows, breath shallow, watching as August stood there, unmoving.

Then—with a sharp inhale—he ran his hands over his face, growling in frustration.

His body was rigid, coiled like a spring about to snap. Lines of strain pulled tight across him, conflict radiating from every nerve. This decision was eating him alive from the inside.

He took a step forward, then stopped, pivoting sharply like he didn’t know where to put himself. Where to direct the storm building in his chest.

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, then loosened, then curled again.

The internal battle raged across his features—duty warring with conscience, training with humanity.

And then—with a sharp, violent kick—he sent a wooden crate flying into the alley wall.

The force of it echoed, sharp and sudden. Wood splintered on impact, shards scattering across the ground.

The air went still. Threads licked across my fingertips—hot, nettling sparks—like the Weave itself winced at his self-disgust. I bit my lip to keep from hissing.

But the violence hadn't been enough to purge whatever demon clawed at him.

He turned, pacing a few steps before stopping abruptly, bracing his hands against his hips. His head tipped back, eyes shutting tight. His jaw clenched hard enough to crack.

Then he finally snapped—spun and drove his fist into the nearest wall.

I flinched, pressing myself harder against the stone, my heart hammering. The violence was so sudden, so raw.

Dust and masonry rained down, the shards skittering across the alley stones. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t make a sound.

But his chest was heaving, breath sharp and ragged. He dropped his fist. His other hand pressed against the wall, his fingers splayed wide as if he needed to steady himself. As if the anger—the guilt—was alive inside him, clawing to get out.

Blood seeped from his knuckles as he dragged that same hand down his face, pressing the heel of his palm hard against his forehead like he could somehow push the conflict back inside, lock it away where it belonged.

“Shit.” The word was barely more than a whisper, rough and raw.

August’s shoulders rose, then settled with a slow grind—as though resetting armor that had been knocked askew. Then—finally—he turned. His expression was carefully blank again, the mask sliding back into place. But I had seen it.

For a moment, just a moment—August Hawthorne had cracked.

I pressed a hand against the stone wall beside me, steadying myself as realization sank deep into my bones. August wasn’t as heartless as he wanted me to believe. If he could spare one Weaver. . . could he spare me?