Page 81 of Shackled By Shadows

He lets out a bitter, breathless laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think I don’t hate myself for this?” His voice is hoarse. “You think I don’t wake up every godsdamned day wondering how much of me is him? How much of my father is buried inside me, waiting to crawl its way to the surface?”

I suck in a breath, my chest aching with the sheer devastation in his voice.

“This was the only way,” he says, it isn’t an excuse.

It isn’t even a justification.

It is a confession, a desperate, broken plea for understanding. “If I didn’t prove myself to him, I wouldn’t have been able to keep the pieces from falling apart. And I need them to hold, Lyra. I need them to hold.”

I stare at him, my own anger fading into something unsteady, something fragile. I still hate what he did. Still hate that he let his shadows be seen, that he let his name be whispered alongside destruction and fear.

But I can see it now, the weight of it, the cost. The way it is eating him alive from the inside out.

Without thinking, I close the distance between us.

Oberon sucks in a sharp breath, his entire body going still as I reach for him. My fingers brush his wrist first, hesitant, testing. When he doesn’t pull away, I press my palm against his forearm, feeling the tension coil beneath his skin. “I hate this,” I admit, my voice barely more than a whisper. “I hate that you had to do this.”

His eyes meet mine, dark and tormented, like he is waiting for me to say the words he is too afraid to voice. “I understand.”

A shuddering breath escapes him, something inside him fracturing at my words.

I can feel the heat radiating from his skin, his heartbeat pulsing just beneath the surface, matching mine in a frantic rhythm. The tension between us hangs thick, a fragile thread of unspoken understanding tethering us together in the rawest of moments.

For a long, heavy second, neither of us moves. His body is as rigid as stone. I can feel the weight of his pain in the way he stands, like he is holding himself together by sheer force of will. It mirrors the way I feel the ache in my chest, the war inside me between anger and a deep, undeniable pull toward him.

I close my eyes for a moment, my hand still pressed against his arm, in that fleeting silence, everything in me breaks open. “I hate this,” I whisper again, this time for myself, for the way I can’t untangle the knots in my own heart. “I hate that you feel like you have to carry all this. I hate that you feel so fucking alone in it.” My words hang in the air, fragile and broken.

It feels like the dam inside him cracked too, because in the next breath, Oberon is there, closer than he has been before, his hands reaching for me like he can’t stop himself, like he can’t bear the distance anymore. Before I can even register what is happening, he pulls me into him, his arms locking around me with an urgency that catches my breath in my throat.

I gasp, the warmth of him enveloping me completely. His scent, that familiar mix of cedarwood and rain, surrounds me like a balm, but beneath it, there is something sharper, something raw. Something broken.

I can’t stop the tremor that shakes through me. “Oberon,” I murmur, my voice catching.

I bury my face into his chest, inhaling him deeply, letting it fill the empty spaces inside me. I can feel his pulse beneath my cheek, and it reminds me that he is still here, still him, even if his heart feels like it has been splintered into a thousand pieces.

He holds me tighter, his breath ragged in my ear, his lips brushing the side of my face as he whispers my name. “Lyra,” he breathes, his voice broken and trembling. “I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I never wanted you to see me like this.”

His words are a confession, a vulnerability, so deep it makes my chest ache.

“Stop,” I whisper, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Don’t apologize for this. Don’t apologize for what you had to do.”

He shakes his head, guilt and pain clouding his eyes. “I should have found another way. I should have been stronger.”

“You’re already strong,” I say softly, cupping his face in my hands. “You’re just . . . you. You’re just a male who’s been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders for too long.” I lean in then, slowly, gently, as if giving him a choice, a chance to pull away if he wants to.

He doesn’t. Instead, he leans in until his lips meet mine with a desperation that steals the breath from my lungs. It is messy, urgent, and raw, the kiss of two souls unraveling in the face of all the pain they have yet to confront.

His hands are everywhere, on my back, on my face, in my hair, pulling me closer as if he is afraid that the moment we share will slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

I can feel it, the raw emotion, the need, the heartbreak. He kisses me like he is trying to pour every word he didn’t say, every apology he hasn’t been able to express, into that single moment.

And I kiss him back, with everything.

Because in that kiss, I understand him more than I ever have before.

I feel the weight of his guilt, his self-loathing, and the need to protect me, even if it means losing more of himself. I break away just enough to breathe, my forehead resting against his, my hands tracing the lines of his jaw.

His eyes are closed, his breath coming in shallow gasps, as if he is afraid to open them and see the truth of what is happening between us.