Townsend nodded, already moving toward his horse.
Bridget turned, her pulse still unsteady from the fight, only to find Thomas watching her. His gaze traced her face, lingering on the faint smear of soot near her cheekbone.
“You could have died,” he said quietly. Not with anger, but with something raw.
She managed a breathless laugh. “So could you.”
He stepped closer, his fingers brushing the soot from her cheek, slow and deliberate. “I don’t think I could have endured that.”
The words stole whatever response she might have had. Instead, she reached for his lapel, anchoring herself against the rush of emotion. “Then it’s a good thing neither of us plans on dying anytime soon.”
He held her gaze, something flickering beneath the surface. Was it relief, restraint, something deeper?
“You were supposed to stay behind,” he murmured, his voice rough but without reprimand. Just something softer.
Bridget swallowed hard. “And let you face them alone? You should know me better by now.” Her voice wavered, but she pushed forward. “You think I don’t understand risk? That I don’t know what it means to lose?” She exhaled shakily. “I grew up watching everything I loved taken from me, piece by piece. And now—” She hesitated, her breath catching. “And now, you almost became another loss. And that, I truly could not bear.”
Thomas took a slow step forward, his hands curling at his sides as if holding something back, something powerful that he had been fighting for too long.
Bridget hesitated, then reached out, brushing her fingers along the torn edge of his coat. He tensed slightly beneath her touch, but he didn’t pull away.
“I thought I lost you,” she whispered.
His breath hitched, and then, slowly, he straightened, his face inches from hers now, the firelight catching in his eyes, turning them molten.
Bridget’s heart pounded. She knew she should step back, should say something clever, something to break the moment before it swallowed them whole. But she didn’t.
Instead, Thomas reached up, his fingers brushing over the loose strand of hair at her temple, tucking it behind her ear. His touch lingered, warm against her skin.
Her pulse thrummed.
He searched her gaze as though waiting for a sign, waiting for her to push him away.
She didn’t.
So he closed the space between them.
The kiss was slow, deliberate, not stolen in battle or born of desperation, but rich with everything unspoken. A kiss that said I see you. I choose you. I won’t let you go.
Bridget’s breath caught as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her closer. She could feel the strength beneath the exhaustion, the quiet promise in the way his lips moved against hers. She melted into him, her fingers gripping his coat, holding him there as though grounding herself.
He deepened the kiss slightly but not demanding. Never demanding.
Just… them. Just relief and unspoken truths and something dangerously close to devotion.
When he finally pulled back, neither of them spoke.
Thomas exhaled a quiet laugh. “This time, you can’t say I think too much.”
Bridget smiled softly, her hands still fisted in his coat. “No. This time, you finally did something right.”
He let out a breath, his thumb tracing over her cheekbone, a quiet tenderness in his touch.
Footsteps crunching in the distance reached their ears.
They both tensed, instinct snapping them back to reality. The world came rushing in again, Barrington, the Order, the danger still lingering in the shadows.
Bridget took a slow step back, immediately feeling the absence of his warmth.
