Page 124 of The Last Stitch

I stood frozen.

Not out of fear. But because something in me—something old and aching and buried too deep to name—recognized the truth in his words.

He was a weapon. Forged by loss. Sharpened by lies.

Yet here he was, unraveling at my feet.

That was it. The moment I stopped pretending I wasn’t already tied to him.

I reached for him slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted. But he didn't move. Didn't breathe.

My fingers found the edge of his jaw first—rough with stubble, warm beneath my touch. Then higher, tracing the bruised line under his eye with a gentleness I hadn't known I possessed.

“Does it hurt?” I whispered.

“Yes. But not the way you think.”

His hand came up to catch mine, pressing my palm flat against his cheek. His eyes closed like my touch was both agony and relief.

“You're not the only one who's changed,” I whispered. My hand was still against his face, and I couldn't seem to make myself let go. “I met the weavers, met you, and suddenly. . . suddenly it all became more complicated. And terrifying. And real.”

I searched his eyes. “You were supposed to be the enemy. The hunter. The one I had to hide from. But instead you're—” I couldn't finish. Couldn't name what he'd become to me.

“I’m what?” The question came out barely audible, desperate.

“Everything I shouldn't want,” I admitted. “And the only thing I cannot let go of.”

He leaned in slowly, giving me a chance to pull away.

I didn't.

His hand slid from mine to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with something close to reverence. Like he was afraid I might vanish if he wasn't careful. Like I was made of threads too delicate to hold.

“Lily.” My name on his lips was half question, half prayer.

I answered by closing the distance between us. Our lips met—not with fireworks, but with gravity.

The inevitable pull of two forces that had been circling each other for weeks, finally colliding. A quiet, trembling sort of kiss. The kind that rewrites you from the inside out. The kind that says: you're not alone anymore.

His other hand found my waist, pulling me closer—not possessive, just desperate to have me near. And I let him. Let myself melt into him like I'd been cold for centuries and he was the first warmth I'd found.

We stayed like that for a long moment—foreheads touching, breathing each other's air, neither of us willing to be the first to step back.

“What now?” I whispered. His hand was still at my waist, anchoring me.

“Now we stop my father. Together.”

“Together,” I agreed.

When we pulled apart, the hourglass pendant at his neck shimmered faintly—like the magic inside it had finally exhaled.

CHAPTER 38

AUGUST

Dawn crept through the sitting room windows like a cautious thing, painting everything in shades of honey and gold. We hadn't slept much. After the kiss, we'd migrated to the sitting room, unwilling to part. Lily had finally dozed off against my chest an hour ago, her breathing evening out as exhaustion won.

I'd been awake for hours, watching Lily sleep curled against me in the old armchair, warmth tucked into every line.