Chapter 17 Locke #2
“Could you love me?” Her voice is so gentle, so careful, it nearly shatters me completely.
“Not just in some vision born of magic and fear. Not just in a moment of grief and loss. Could you. . .really care for me? Here, now, in this world where everything is complicated and messy and there are no guarantees?”
God, she has no idea what she’s asking. The weight of it, the impossibility of it.
Maybe she does. Maybe that’s what makes her so brave, so perfectly, devastatingly her.
She’s asking me to lay down my armor, to step out from behind centuries of training and duty and expectation, to just. . .be. Be real. Be vulnerable. Be hers.
I open my mouth, trying to form words that feel adequate to the moment, to the magnitude of what she’s offering.
Nothing comes out. My throat has gone dry as sand, my tongue thick and useless.
I want to ask her about Sam and the way he looks at her like she hung the stars, about her Tether to Micah and what that means for any future we might try to build.
I want to tell her I’m not worthy of her light, that I’m too broken, too damaged by war and duty and a lifetime of emotional repression.
For once in my verbose, well-educated life, I am completely, utterly speechless.
She takes my silence for an answer, of course she does, because what else could it mean? I can see her closing herself off to me, pulling back behind those walls she’s building. The light in her eyes dims, replaced by something that looks dangerously close to resignation.
Her shoulders tighten, curling inward like she’s trying to make herself smaller, invisible.
Her chin drops, silver hair falling forward to hide her face.
She turns her head away, and just like that, I lose her.
I can feel her slipping through my fingers like water, like mist, like every other good thing I’ve ever been too afraid to hold onto.
Fuck. That.
I reach for her before I even know I’m doing it, fingers finding the delicate line of her jaw, tilting her face back toward mine with a gentleness that surprises us both.
Her breath stutters against my skin, warm and sweet, and electricity flows through my veins from just that simple touch, fire and lightning and something that feels suspiciously like coming home.
My eyes study hers with an intensity that borders on desperation, cataloging every fleck of silver in her irises, every shadow of doubt I need to chase away.
She studies me right back, fearless and unflinching, seeing past every mask I’ve ever worn straight down to the raw, unguarded heart of me.
No questions now, no doubts. Just truth, hanging in the air between us like a promise.
I kiss her.
It’s not gentle. It’s not restrained or careful or any of the things a proper fae warrior should be when touching something so precious, so breakable.
It’s everything I’ve held back since the moment I saw her in that sun-drenched clearing, barefoot and furious and more alive than anyone has a right to be.
It’s hunger and agony and relief all tangled together into something that tastes like salvation.
It’s a confession made in skin and breath and the desperate press of mouth against mouth.
I taste her, rain and magic and something uniquely, intoxicatingly her, licking into her mouth like she’s the answer to every question I’ve ever asked, every prayer I’ve ever whispered in the dark.
Our teeth clack together with barely contained desperation, the metallic sting like a battle wound I’d gladly suffer a thousand times.
Our tongues tangle and dance, slick heat and primal need, as I draw her deeper, tasting that wild magic that crackles against my lips.
We move as one being, my hands splayed across her lower back, pulling her flush against me until I feel the thunder of her heart matching mine, two halves of something that was always meant to be whole.
She doesn’t pull away. God, no. Instead, she surges against me, pressing her soft curves into the unyielding planes of my body with an urgency that makes my blood roar.
Her fingers find the collar of my tunic and curl tight, knuckles white, nails biting deliciously into my skin, holding me there like she’s drowning and I’m her only access to oxygen.
Like she needs this kiss to breathe, to survive, to remember what it feels like to be alive.
The sound she makes against my mouth, half-whimper, half-demand, undoes me completely, driving rational thought from my mind until there’s nothing left but sensation and hunger and the devastating rightness of her body against mine.
I can feel her pulse hammering beneath my fingertips, a frantic rhythm that mirrors the chaos in my own chest, and I know with bone-deep certainty that I would burn kingdoms to the ground to keep her looking at me like this.
When I finally pull back, more from necessity than desire, my lungs burning for air, we’re both breathing hard, lips swollen and slick from the force of our connection.
Her forehead leans into mine, our breath mingling in the narrow space between us, and her lips are still parted, still pink and perfect and begging to be kissed again.
“That wasn’t a mistake,” I murmur against her skin, my voice rough with want and certainty. “I’ve wanted to do that since the moment I saw you. Since before I even knew your name, when you were just this impossible, beautiful creature who turned my entire world upside down with a single glance.”
She nods, just once, eyes still closed. Her fingers are still twisted in my tunic, still holding on like she’s afraid I might disappear if she lets go.
I could stay here forever, basking in this moment, in the warmth of her skin and the soft sound of her breathing.
I tried to resist this pull between us, fought it with everything I had, but my soul persisted.
My heart insisted, and now, with her mouth still tasting of something much more, I can’t remember why I ever thought resistance was possible.
The sound of hooves crunching over gravel and the melodic jangling of reins breaks the moment like glass shattering. Sam is returning, his footsteps deliberate and careful. Even from a distance, I can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he moves like a man walking toward his own execution.
We separate slowly, reluctantly, no fear or shame in the careful distance we put between our bodies.
I know without a doubt the wolf heard our conversation, his enhanced senses would have picked up every word, every breath, every racing heartbeat.
I feel only a strange kind of relief. No more pretending.
No more careful dances around the truth.
When Sam approaches, leading the horses with practiced ease, he doesn’t say a word.
Doesn’t demand explanations or stake territorial claims or do any of the things I expected from a mated male who just heard another man confess his feelings to his woman.
He just lifts the saddlebags back onto his mare with steady hands and offers Esme a waterskin, his movements gentle and deliberate.
His eyes flick briefly to mine, green and knowing and completely unreadable, before settling on Esme with something that looks like understanding.
The air has changed, charged with new possibilities and unspoken agreements. Something between us all has shifted, the careful balance we’ve been maintaining finally giving way to something more honest, more complicated, more real.
I think, for the first time since this journey began, none of us are pretending anymore. We’re not hiding behind duty or denial or the comfortable fiction that this is simple, that the bonds between us can be easily defined or dismissed.
This journey is not only Esme’s, it never really was. It’s ours. All of ours. Whatever comes next, whatever trials wait ahead in the darkness, we’ll face them together. Changed. Unashamed of the messy, impossible thing we’re becoming.