Chapter 19
Nineteen
Declan’s fingers wrap around mine. The truth lingers in the air, humming between our bodies, breathing on its own.
When he tugs me forward, I go easily, willingly.
I fall into him because I want to. Because everything the Tower burned away made room for things I never thought I’d be brave enough to hold—stillness, desire without performance, want without fear. And him.
His exhale is long and uneven, a sound more like a release than a breath. His hands find my waist. Mine curl into his shirt, fingertips pressing into the fabric like I need to feel how solid he is. We stand like that, our foreheads touching, suspended in something quiet and tender and unfinished.
We’ve both been burned down to our bones. And here, in the ashes, we choose to start again.
Maybe this is what beginning feels like.
“I didn’t realize how bad it’d gotten,” I murmur. “Bit by bit, I edited myself down. Smoothed the edges. Cleaned up the rough spots. Kept rebranding until there wasn’t much left that was actually me.”
His thumb strokes the small of my back, grounding me with that quiet, steady pressure.
“It’s not surprising she never loved herself,” I whisper. “How could she?”
“I could.” Declan’s breath is warm against my cheeks. “If she let me, I could love her enough for both of us.”
I look up, searching his face. Searching for the catch. The hesitation. The lie.
I want to trust him. I want to let myself trust him. But habits don’t die in a night. The woman I built—polished, made palatable—still lives under my skin, cataloging every way I fall short.
“I taught myself that love is just another thing to manifest, to earn. Do everything right, be smaller, quieter, prettier, and one day someone picks you.”
Declan doesn’t rush to fill the silence, to fix what I’m learning is broken. I’m grateful for that because something in me is spilling open, pouring light into the places I’ve tried to keep sealed.
Declan brushes my hair back, his palm warm as he cradles my face. “Would it be weird to say that I think I might have manifested you, like this, just as you are?”
“In the messy middle of healing?” Tears press against my eyes. “I’ve spent so long building the appearance of being okay, I’d forgotten what it feels like to actually become it.”
The Tower gave me permission to move forward, burn myself down, and rise from the ashes like a phoenix.
Declan did too. But more importantly, I have finally given myself permission to stop performing.
To stop contorting into something worthy.
To stop chasing validation like it’s a prize to be won with perfection.
This experience, this kingdom’s magick, has awakened a part of me, brittle and buried, and I know if I let it rise into the light, I’ll never be able to shove it back down into the dark.
But maybe that’s the point.
“Do you know what that looks like for you?” I ask. “Moving forward. Living the life you want. Healing.”
He blinks like the idea hasn’t fully landed.
I lay my hand on top of his. “Your softness can’t only be for me. You have to turn it inward too.”
He looks down, lashes casting shadows over the sharp lines of his stubbled cheeks. “It’s easier when I’m…” He searches for the word, jaw flexing. “Checking the boxes.”
“Is it?” I lift my hand and trace the sandpaper edge of his jaw. “Because what I just saw didn’t look easy.”
His eyelids shutter for half a second. “I don’t know how to bring that other version of myself back. The one who knew how to live life for himself.”
“You don’t have to bring him back. He never left.
” I press my palm flat to his chest, over the steady beat of his heart.
“He’s right here. He just got buried. But while we’ve been here, I’ve seen him.
He’s fun,” I continue, an almost cheesy grin pulling at my lips.
“A kind, knight-in-shining-armor type. And in spite of the fact that I’ve seen him shove five figs in his mouth at once, he’s ridiculously sexy. ”
His brows lifts, mouth quirking. “You think he’s sexy?”
I shrug one shoulder. “Occasionally. Under very specific lighting.”
“Specific lighting?” he echoes, his hands sliding into place around my waist like he already knows the blueprint of my body.
“Moonlight with a dimming fire. Maybe a little ash smudged across his jaw.” I brush my thumb over the stubble at his chin. “You know…hypothetically.”
He exhales a sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, then pulls me flush to him, one hand sweeping up my spine with aching slowness. His chest presses to mine, solid and warm. Then he lowers his head and buries his face in the curve of my neck, breath hot against my skin.
“Are you flirting with me, Amanda?”
My fingers slide into his hair, damp with sweat from the Tower’s heat and flame. Pulse skipping, I turn my face toward his, a slow, wicked smile curving my lips. “I hope to do a lot more than flirt.”
Declan’s lips are soft when they brush mine once, twice, testing the shape of us. His hand slides to my jaw, and he tilts my face enough to open me to him. A promise written in the way his lips part mine.
When he deepens the kiss, I meet him halfway, melting into him inch by inch.
His tongue strokes mine with unhurried intensity, learning me, tasting me. Like every slow glide is a question, and every sigh I give in return is the answer. His thick fingers splay against the small of my back, and the contact sends a pulse of heat up my spine.
I sigh into his mouth, opening wider, burning hotter. His teeth catch my bottom lip, and I gasp, the sound echoing off the Tower columns. He groans low in his throat, the vibration sinking straight into my bones.
The more he kisses me, touches me, the more of myself I want to give. The whole, broken, burning truth.
“Declan—”
His name slips out before I know what I mean to say. There’s so much rising at once—want, ache, uncertainty, the edge of something that feels like surrender.
He pulls me closer, one arm tightening around my waist, the other sliding higher up my back, palm pressing flat between my shoulder blades.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs. His voice is gravel and honey, rough and sweet.
My knees buckle, and I collapse into him fully, letting him take my weight. Letting him hold it. Letting him hold me.
His hands move slowly up my arms like he’s afraid that one wrong touch might fracture whatever fragile, sacred thing has opened between us.
His fingers trail beneath the loose edges of my wrap and find the tie at my waist. He pulls the string and pushes it away, knuckles brushing my ribs, leaving trails of fire behind.
He pushes the silk, and the wrap slips from my shoulders. Before it’s even reached the sandy stones, I reach for him, needing him closer, his skin against mine. My hands slide under his shirt, palms skimming the ridges of muscle carved along his stomach.
I lift the fabric up his chest. He takes it from me, ripping it off and letting it fall, his mouth catching mine in a kiss that’s harder now, hungrier, like something inside him has also been bared.
His callused hands scrape my shoulders to the ties at the back of my neck. His lips never leave mine as he tugs them loose, and the moment the fabric slips away, cool night air licks across my skin. My nipples tighten instantly—sharp, needy points that ache for his touch.
He kisses a line down my throat, stubbled jaw burning a track in my skin. He trails lower, breath coming in hot plumes against the swell of my breast. My toes curl against the stone. I rise onto them, lifting into him, offering. Begging.
He groans, low and broken, then closes his lips around one aching peak and sucks.
A moan punches from my lungs like it’s been tucked inside my chest waiting there, waiting for him.
My spine bows. My fingers dig into his shoulders, nails scoring flesh. His free hand finds my other breast, thumb brushing the tight bud in slow circles, over and over, until my legs tremble.
Pleasure pools low and deep, heat slick between my thighs. Every pull of his mouth draws more from me. Every breath makes me needier, more desperate.
He releases my breast with a soft, wet pop that makes my knees shake. His tongue flicks once more over the peak then he drags his mouth back up to mine. His hands slide lower, fingers scorching a path along my ribs, tracing the dip of my waist and the curve of my hips with unbearable patience.
Rough fingers find the knots of my panties on either side of my hips. One tug, then another, and the ties unravel in his hands, whispering against my skin as they fall open. The fabric slips down my thighs in slow surrender, catching briefly at my knees before pooling at my feet.
When he sinks to the ground, rough palms sliding down my ass, the breath leaves my lungs in one violent rush.
“Spread your legs for me,” he rasps, his hands anchoring at my thighs.
My body listens before I can think, hips tilting, feet parting in silent invitation.
He pulls me closer, presses his mouth to the inside of one thigh. The sandpaper scratch of his cheek against my soft flesh shoots hot sparks beneath my skin. The heat of it coils deep in my belly, spreading lower, dripping between my legs.
I reach for the altar to steady myself, fingers curling against the warm stone.
He looks up at me from under his dark lashes, hair wild and damp, delicious mouth curved in a sly smile that makes my stomach clench. “I’ve been dreaming of this every goddamn night. What you smell like.” With a sharp inhale, he drags his nose through my wet heat. “What you taste like.”
I don’t get the chance to respond. His mouth is already on me.
He licks a long, flat stripe through my slickness. He groans into me, and the vibration rocks straight through my core, stealing the breath from my lungs. I clutch at his hair, fingers twisting in the damp strands, tugging without meaning to.