But it’s useless.
The image is already there, seared into my mind, unbidden and impossible to ignore.
My hands shake as I fill my cup, and I retreat back to the bedroom to drink it before snuggling in for the night.
The last thing I think of before finally falling asleep is that I’m not sure anything he gives me will ever be enough.
If there’s anything I will always want more of, no matter the scenario, it’s him.
* * *
The cottage is quiet,the only sound is the faint crackle of the fire burning low in the hearth through the open bedroom door.
I blink my eyes open, my head swimming with the remnants of a restless dream, only to find myself wrapped in warmth.
Ezra’s arm is draped heavily over my waist, his body pressed against mine.
His breathing is steady, soft puffs of air brushing the back of my neck.
The heat from the fire, combined with the heaviness of his presence makes it hard to move.
Hard to think.
Hard to breathe.
I should shove him away.
I should be furious that he’s this close to me without my permission. He’s slept on the couch every night since we’ve been here, so I’m not sure why he’s made this executive decision now.
Whatever happened between us a few hours ago doesn’t mean I want this.
But instead, I stay perfectly still, my gaze drawn to the flickering flames in the fireplace visible through the open bedroom door.
Because the truth is, my body knows his before my mind can protest.
Because despite everything, despite the anger and the mistrust, this is the easiest thing in the world.
Because part of me doesn’t want to leave the cocoon of warmth he’s made around me.
My eyes drift down to his chest, partially exposed where the blanket has fallen away. The shifting light dances over his skin, illuminating the brand etched across it, twisting lines of scarred flesh that stretch over hard muscle, stark against the heat of his skin. It’s a mark that has always unsettled me, something brutal and deliberate, a wound turned permanent.
I’d noticed it before, but I hadn’t understood what it meant. I remember the first time I asked, the way he’d barely looked at me, brushing it off like it was nothing.My dad was a psycho;he’d muttered before steering the conversation elsewhere. His tone had made it clear that that was all he was willing to give me.
I was used to him deflecting by then. Used to the way he would redirect, shutting doors before I even had the chance to open them. And I let him. I never pushed, never pried, because back then, I thought keeping him close meant not asking for too much. I thought that if I gave him space, if I waited, he might eventually let me in.
But now, with everything I know about the Assembly, about the kind of power and violence that moves in shadows, shaping lives whether you want it to or not, the pieces start to fall into place.
A slow, uneasy feeling curls in my stomach, and before I can stop myself, my fingers reach out, drawn to the raised lines of the brand.
I expect him to flinch, to shift away like he always does when someone gets too close. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he stirs, his inhale cutting through the quiet as his breath catches. His eyes flutter open, heavy with sleep.
He catches me mid-movement, my hand frozen against his chest. Heat radiates from his skin, but I barely feel it over the tension tightening the space between us.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The air is thick, charged, humming.
