Page 83 of The Last Stitch

I didn't answer. Because I wasn't sure what I was thinking anymore. Only that I wasn’t ready to see him. I knew I needed to look him in the eye and feel something other than this impossible tangle of fury and desire. Needed to know if the man who'd held me while I broke was the same man who'd dragged Lorien away in chains.

And if he was—if they were both real, both true—I needed to know which one would win. But first, I needed to calm down.

CHAPTER 24

AUGUST

The last of our scouting rounds had taken us along the outskirts of town, through the narrow trails that cut between thick brush and towering oaks. The sun sat low in the sky, casting a red haze over the treetops. The sight did little to thaw the cold weight settling in my chest.

I still needed one perfect arrest to prove to myself that Lily hadn’t cracked me open, but whisky was the only quarry I could pin down today.

We had found nothing today; no signs of Weavers, no disturbances beyond the usual. It should have been a relief. Instead, it left me with unease coiling beneath my ribs.

Garrick rode beside me, his reins held loosely in one hand, the other resting lazily on his thigh. He had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the afternoon, but I knew him well enough to recognize the signs of an impending storm.

“You're avoiding her.”

The words cut through the silence between us, sharp and deliberate.

I didn’t look at him. Instead, I focused on the road ahead, on the rhythmic clip of our horses' hooves against the dirt. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Garrick let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Come on, August. You think I haven’t noticed? You’ve been twitchy as hell since last night.”

I rubbed the leather rein between my thumb and forefinger.

Saints, I had been careful. At least, I thought I had. But Garrick had always been good at reading people, and clearly, I was no exception.

“She got under your skin,” he mused, amusement lacing his tone. “I’ll give it to her. It didn’t take her long.”

I shot him a glare. “Drop it.”

“Not a chance.” He turned toward me fully, his grin widening. “So, what is it? The attitude? The way she gets under your skin? Or—” His smirk deepened. “Is it the fact that you got a good look at her last night and now you don’t know what to do with yourself?”

My molars ground together.

I should have never told him.

He was right, though. I was avoiding her. I had spent the entire night and day trying to rid my mind of the way she had stood there, bare and unbothered, daring me to react.

“She’s a problem,” I muttered.

“That’s one way to put it,” Garrick drawled, clearly amused. “Though, I’d wager you don’t really see her as a problem, do you?”

I pulled my horse to a stop near the edge of the trees, rubbing a hand over my face. “I need a drink.”

Garrick let out another laugh, guiding his horse beside mine. “Now that’s something I can help with.”

He led the way to the tavern, a familiar, worn-down establishment tucked into the heart of town. The scent of spiced ale and smoke clung to the air, mixing with the low murmur of conversation. The place wasn’t crowded—not yet—but the usual crowd had already gathered, filling the space with laughter, hushed dealings, and the occasional drunken boast.

I followed him inside, rolling the tension from my shoulders. A drink. That was all I needed. Something to drown out the thoughts still clawing at the edges of my mind.

The memory of her wouldn’t leave me.

Lily, standing in my study, water tracing lazy rivulets down her bare shoulders. Her skin flushed from the heat of the bath, damp curls clinging to the curve of her throat, the soft slope of her collarbone.

And then—Saints help me—the way she had let the towel slip from her frame.

I could still see the way the firelight had flickered over the smooth lines of her back, the gentle curve of her waist, the way she hadn’t hesitated, hadn’t faltered, as if she knew exactly what she was doing to me.