The part of me that spent three years alone in a cave wants to scream at the part of me that’s already surrendering.
I should feel pathetic and weak.
But all I feel is peace.
22
Silas
Her breathing slows against my chest, and the shaking stops. Her fists gripping my shirt loosen, finger by finger, until her hands rest there, small and warm against me.
She must have fallen asleep.
I keep stroking her hair because I don’t know how to stop. My wolf and I are both content just to lie here with her weight against me. She’s so small. I could hold her with one arm and barely notice. But the feel of her, the reality of another person pressed against my body, trusting me enough to fall asleep. That weighs more than anything I’ve ever carried.
I look down at the top of her head, at her brown hair falling across my chest, at the curve of her cheek, and the way her lashes rest against her skin. She looks softer when she sleeps. Her hard edges smooth out, and what’s left is just a girl—a girl who’s been alone for far too long.
My throat tightens with the familiar ache of the words that live inside me with nowhere to go.
I want to tell her she’s safe. I want to tell her I understand. I want to tell her that the nightmares don’t stop, but they do get quieter. I want to tell her about my mother’s laugh and my sister’s face.
But the words don’t come. They never do. They stopped the night the screaming started, and they never came back.
So I hold her. It’s all I know how to do.
I tilt my head back against the couch and close my eyes, just resting in the quiet with her warmth against me and her heartbeat steady under my hand.
Then she moves.
Her head lifts from my chest, and I look down, expecting to see her eyes still closed, expecting her to settle back in.
But she’s awake. Those blue eyes are looking up at me. We look at each other. No talking needed.
Her lips part like she’s about to say something—then she closes them. When she opens them again, I watch the war play out on her face, the push and pull of whatever she’s fighting inside herself.
“You’re my favorite,” she says.
My favorite.
Nobody has ever said that to me, not once. Not my mother, who loved all her children equally and made sure we knew it. Not my father. Not Darius or Archer or Elias, who are my brothers in every way that matters, but would never say something like that out loud.
I’ve been many things. Loyal. Useful. Dependable. The big one. The quiet one. The one you send in when you need something heavy moved.
But never anyone’s favorite.
Light filters in through a place that’s been sealed shut for a decade. My eyes sting. I blink it back because I don’t cry. Haven’t cried since I was eighteen years old, kneeling in my family’s blood.
I don’t have words for her. But the silence between us isn’t empty right now. It’s full—overflowing—and saying everything I can’t.
Then she reaches up.
Her hand touches my jaw. Lightly. Her fingers follow the edge of my scar, and I hold perfectly still.
She rises up on her knees, her face inches from mine. Her breath is warm against my mouth. I can feel the hesitation in her, the fear, the way her body tenses like she’s about to do something incredibly brave or incredibly stupid, and she can’t tell the difference.
And her lips press against mine.
Soft. So soft. The gentlest thing I’ve ever felt. Just her mouth against mine, warm and careful and deliberate. Like she’s choosing this. Choosing me.