Page 149 of The Last Stitch

He opened his eyes, searching mine like he was desperate to believe me but didn't know how.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked quietly. “Tell me the truth.”

“No.” I held his gaze, letting him see the honesty there. “You didn't hurt me. You marked me, yes. But August—” I leaned in until my forehead rested against his. “I wanted you to. I wanted all of you, not just the controlled, careful version. I wanted to see who you are when you stop pretending.”

His breath shuddered out against my face. “I don't know who that person is.”

“I do.” I pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “He's someone who feels deeply. Who loves fiercely. Who's terrified of becoming his father because he has a conscience.” Another kiss. “He's the man who chose to save Mira instead of following orders. The man who held a dying Weaver and wept for her. The man who just made love to me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.”

“Lily—” His voice broke completely.

“Stay with me,” I whispered. “Don't run from this. Don't run from what we just shared.”

For a long moment, he didn't move. I could feel the war raging inside him—the instinct to flee warring with the desire to stay. His hands trembled where they rested on my waist, like he was physically holding himself in place.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

“I'm terrified,” he admitted, barely audible. “Terrified of losing you. Terrified of hurting you. Terrified that I'll wake up tomorrow and realize I've become everything I hate.”

“Then don't let go,” I said simply. “Hold onto me. Hold onto this. Hold onto the fact that you're capable of caring this much.”

He stared at me for another heartbeat, and then something in him seemed to break—not his control this time, but his resistance. He pulled me against his chest, wrapping both arms around me like he was afraid I'd disappear if he loosened his grip.

“I don't deserve you,” he whispered into my hair.

“That's not your choice to make.” I pressed my palm over his heart, feeling it thunder beneath my touch. “I choose you, August. All of you. Even the parts you're afraid of.”

He held me tighter.

We stayed like that for a long time—wrapped around each other in the golden lamplight, the threads still glowing faintly around us. Eventually, he shifted us both down onto the bedroll, pulling the blanket over us and tucking me against his side.

“Thank you,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my temple. “For not letting me run.”

“Always,” I whispered back, already feeling sleep pulling at me. “I'll always pull you back.”

His arm tightened around me, and he buried his face in my hair. His lips brushed my forehead, his body warm and solid along mine. And in the space between heartbeats, one last thread remained. Thin as silk, bright as captured sunlight, still glowing faintly from the place where his hand rested over my heart. I didn't know what it meant. But I knew I never wanted it to fade.

CHAPTER 45

AUGUST

Her breath came first. Warm, even. Soft where it ghosted against my chest, like the world had stopped moving and only she remembered how to breathe.

Lily was still tucked beneath the curve of my arm, her bare leg tangled with mine, her fingers resting lightly on my stomach—like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hold on or let go. The fire at the center of the encampment had long since burned down to its coals, casting a low amber glow over the canvas walls. Beyond it, the forest sighed, a quiet wind slipping through the trees. The war outside was waiting.

But for now, we had this.

She shifted slightly in her sleep, the soft slide of her skin against mine making my pulse tighten—not with desire, but with the ache of knowing I couldn’t lose her. Not now. Not ever. It was the kind of feeling that lodged deep in the chest, sharp and alive, the kind that made you abandon reason and rewrite your fate. She was fire to my ice, breath to my lungs—my reason for stepping out of my father’s shadow and into the light of who I could become. For whatever reason I needed her more than I needed my father’s acceptance.

I pressed my lips to her hair, breathing her in—woodsmoke and wildflowers and something entirely her own. I tightened my arm around her. Just enough to feel the shape of her shoulder beneath my palm.

She stirred.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” I said, softly.

“You didn’t.” She blinked up at me, eyes soft and unreadable in the dim light. “I don’t think I was really asleep.”

We were quiet for a moment. Just breathing. Just being.