Page 144 of The Last Stitch

“I don’t know who I am without him,” he said. “Without Elias.”

“You're not him,” I said quietly. “You've proven that already.”

August's laugh was bitter. “Have I? I've spent my entire life following his orders, believing his teachings. Even now, sitting here with you, planning to betray everything he stands for—part of me feels like I'm betraying myself.”

The pendant caught the moonlight as he held it up, studying it like it might reveal some hidden truth. “She left this for me. My mother. But she also left me with him. How do I reconcile that?”

I watched the way his jaw tensed with each internal argument. “Maybe she didn't have a choice.”

“There's always a choice.”

“Is there?” I shifted slightly, angling toward him. “Maybe leaving you with Elias was the only way to keep you safe. Maybe she thought he would change, that love would soften him.”

August's grip tightened on the pendant. “And instead, he raised me to hunt people like her.”

“But you're here now. With us.”

He looked at me then, really looked, and I saw the boy he must have been—confused, grieving, desperate for someone to tell him the world made sense. “What if I cannot do it, Lily? What if, when the moment comes, I choose him over you? The others don't trust me. I can see it in their eyes during the meeting. They think I'll betray them.”

The vulnerability in his voice made my chest ache. “Then I'll trust that you'll make the right choice when it matters.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because I've seen who you are when you think no one is watching. I've seen you tend wounded Weavers, I've seen you question everything you were taught. I've seen you choose compassion over duty again and again.” I reached out, covering his hand with mine. “That's not conditioning, August. That's who you are.”

He stared down at our joined hands, his thumb tracing along my knuckles. “My father will never forgive me for this.”

“Will you forgive yourself if you don't try?”

The question hung between us like a challenge. August squeezed his eyes shut like he could block out the truth in my words. When he finally opened his eyes again, something had shifted. Not resolution, exactly, but a kind of weary acceptance.

“The pendant,” he said. “It's been growing warmer since we returned from the stream. And sometimes, when I hold it, I can almost feel. . .” He trailed off, shaking his head.

“Feel what?”

“Magic. Threads. Faint ones, like echoes. At the stream, when you showed me the threads. . . I experienced something I'd never known before. Peace. Like everything finally made sense. Whatever happens in Oxford, whatever choice I must to make—” The words caught in his throat. “I want you to know that this, my feelings for you, it's the most real thing in my life.”

My heart clenched at the vulnerability written across his face.

“I know it's not fair to say this before we go into danger. I know it complicates things. But I needed you to know.”

I reached up, cupping his face in my hands. “I know. I feel it too.”

For a moment, we simply sat there, the weight of confession settling between us. I could see him processing what he'd revealed, the way it seemed to steady something fundamental in him. As if naming what lay between us had given him an anchor point in the chaos of everything else changing.

“Walk with me?” he asked finally.

I nodded, slipping my fingers into his.

We didn’t speak as we crossed the camp, the quiet crackle of dying embers and distant murmurs falling away with every step. The tent waited just ahead, its canvas glowing like honey from the lantern within. A hush settled between us—not awkward, not uncertain.

Just heavy. Expectant.

He held the flap open for me, and I stepped inside, the warmth of the space wrapping around me instantly. When I turned, he was still in the opening—backlit by moonlight and shadow, coat unbuttoned, hair tousled, jaw tight with restraint.

But his eyes. . .

God, they burned like they always did when he looked at me. Like I was salvation and damnation wrapped in willing flesh, and he'd gladly burn for the chance to touch me.