43. Chapter Forty-Three #2
The grass is warm and fragrant beneath my back, crushed wildflowers releasing their sweet scent as Liam lowers me down, his body a sheltering weight above mine.
Sunlight filters through the leaves in golden shards, painting his skin in shifting light and shadow, and I swear I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than the way he looks at me, like I’m the only thing left in his world worth saving.
His mouth finds mine again, slower this time, deliberate.
A low sound rumbles in his chest when I part my lips for him, when my tongue slides against his.
It’s need, want, and everything we’ve never needed words for.
His hand slips beneath the hem of my shirt, palm gliding up my ribcage, thumb brushing the underside of my breast with devastating patience.
My back arches without permission, pressing myself into his touch, and he smiles against my mouth, like he knows exactly what that single stroke is doing to me. “Liam,” I breathe, it’s half plea, half prayer.
His mouth finds my throat again, open kisses that make me shiver. He slips my shirt over my head, his follows. Skin meets skin, and he exhales like a man who’s been holding his breath for years.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs against my collarbone, lips trailing lower. When he closes his mouth over my breast, I arch with a soft cry. “Liam—”
“I’ve got you, little warrior.” He says, the words vibrating through me. “I’ve always got you.”
Buttons, zippers, fabric, everything falls away in quiet agreement. He pauses above me, naked and trembling, eyes asking the same question they always do. I answer by reaching for him, wrapping my fingers around the hard, hot length of him. He groans, hips jerking into my touch.
“Please,” he rasps. “I need to be inside you. I need to feel you around me when I say it.”
I guide him to me, thighs falling open, heart wide. He pushes in, slow, relentless, watching my face like it’s the only map he’ll ever follow.
When he’s buried, he stills. “Eyes on me,” he whispers.
I look at him.
“I love you,” he says, voice cracking on every syllable. “Every broken, impossible inch of you. I love you so much it scares the hell out of me.”
I pull him down until our lips touch. “Then be scared with me,” I whisper back. “Stay scared with me. Just don’t stop.”
He starts to move, long, deliberate strokes that drag gasps from my throat and quiet curses from his. Each thrust a vow neither of us needs to speak aloud. My legs wrap around him, heels digging into the small of his back, urging him deeper because I need the proof carved into my bones.
His hand slips between us, fingers circling my clit exactly where I need him. “Cum for me, baby.” He murmurs against my mouth. “Let me feel it. Let me feel you choose me.”
The pleasure coils tight and bright, building in soft, breathless waves until I can’t hold it back, until I break open beneath him with a broken cry that he swallows with a kiss.
He follows right after, burying his face in my neck, my name torn from his throat like it hurts to say it and hurts more to keep it inside.
I feel his pulse deep, the warmth of him spilling into me, marking me in a way no war ever could.
We stay locked together, trembling, the oak leaves rustling overhead like quiet applause. His weight is heavy and perfect, anchoring me to the earth, to him. I stroke his hair, damp at the temples, and feel his lips brush a tear I didn’t realize had slipped free.
“I’m here,” I whisper into his hair. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He lifts his head, eyes wet and fierce. “We protect each other, always. Promise me.” He says, voice barely a sound.
I kiss him, soft, certain, endless. “I promise,” I breathe against his lips. “Always.”
By the time night settles over the mansion, the three of us move through the hallways like ghosts, quiet, tired, wrapped in that soft exhaustion that follows too much emotion and too much intimacy.
Upstairs, the bedroom is dim, the sheets cool, the air smelling faintly of cedar and smoke and everything that feels like home.
Max stretches out on one side of the bed, muttering something sarcastic about the ridiculous number of pillows.
Liam settles behind me, arms slipping around my waist like muscle memory, his chest warm against my back.
I curl between them, one hand resting on Max’s stomach, Liams’s steady breath brushing the back of my neck. Safe. Held. Whole. For the first time all day, my eyes drift closed without fear tugging at the edges. Sleep comes fast. For a little while, there is nothing but warmth.
I wake to quiet. Soft morning light filters through the curtains, tracing the room in pale gold. Max is still beside me, one arm slung over my hip, breathing slow and heavy, mouth parted in an unguarded way he’d deny if I ever pointed it out.
I smile, small, fond. Then I shift, and my hand brushes the sheets on my other side. Cold. Not recently vacated warm. Cold. The kind of cold that says hours have passed since he was here. My stomach flutters, a tight, unwelcome twist.
“Max,” I whisper, nudging him gently.
He groans. Doesn’t open his eyes. “What?”
“Did you wake up when Liam got out of bed?”
Max scrubs a hand over his face. “No.” He frowns, barely awake. “Thought he was right behind you.”
He trails off as he finally sits up a little, blinking toward the empty space of the mattress. “Maybe he’s downstairs starting coffee,” he says, though his voice is still thick, uncertain.
Maybe. But something in the air feels… wrong. Too still. Too quiet. Liam never leaves without a word. Not to me. Not after last time. A ripple of unease crawls beneath my skin. I slip out of bed, pulling one of Liam’s shirts over my head as I stand.
“Sparrow?” Max calls softly behind me.
I pause at the doorway, hand tight on the frame. “I’m just going to check.”
Even as I say it, something in my chest already knows. This is the start of the break. The fracture. The ground is shifting again. And this time I can feel the drop coming.