Chapter 30
LILY
Adeline retired for the evening, leaving only silence.
I should have gone to my room. I should have put as much distance between myself and August as possible.
Instead, I stood in his study, the quiet stretching long and taut between us.
The fire crackled low in the hearth, its dim light flickering over the sharp planes of August’s face.
He was sitting back in his chair, legs sprawled, fingers toying with the rim of his glass.
He looked perfectly at ease, but I knew better.
I had seen him let Mira go. His muscles were coiled tight beneath my touch when I wrapped his hand. The way his fingers twitched as if itching to tear something apart.
He was unraveling.
He must have sensed my hesitation because he exhaled through his nose, lifting his drink to his lips. “Don’t hover, Lily.”
The cool indifference in his tone made my blood boil.
But I'd learned to see past the mask. Beneath the cold, controlled hunter was someone else—someone who bled and broke and hated himself for the choices he had to make.
Two souls trapped in one body, tearing each other apart with every breath.
And I didn't know which one would survive.
“If you have something to say,” he murmured, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Say it.”
I should have walked away. Instead, I spoke.
“You're at war with yourself,” I said quietly. “Duty against conscience. And every day you have to choose which one wins.” I stepped closer. “But today, for once, you chose right. You saved her. So why are you sitting here punishing yourself for it?”
August stilled. The only movement was the slow flick of his gaze as it slid to mine.
For a moment, something flickered in his expression. Recognition. Or even relief that someone had seen. That someone understood. Then it was gone, replaced by cold indifference.
“You think one moment of weakness makes me a good man? It doesn't. It makes me compromised. Distracted. Exactly what he warned against.”
“The Unraveler?”
“He is right. Sentiment is weakness. Mercy is failure. And what I did today?” His jaw clenched. “That was the last time I let either win.”
“You don't believe that.”
“I have to believe it. Because the alternative is admitting I've been wrong about everything. And I cannot—” He stopped himself, jaw working. His hand shook—just barely, just enough for the whiskey to tremble in the glass.
He set his glass down with enough force to make it crack against the table. The firelight cut sharp angles across his face, shadows pooling in the hollow of his throat, along the sharp lines of his jaw. Carving him into something both devastating and dangerous.
“You’re angry.” The words came out quieter than I meant them to.
August exhaled a slow, humorless chuckle, shaking his head as he stood. “And what exactly am I supposed to be angry about, Lily?”
I took another step forward. The heat between us coiled, tightened.
His hands flexed at his sides.
I should have been afraid. But I wasn’t. I was furious. Because I had seen the truth, and now, I needed him to feel the weight of it.
“You let her go,” I said again, each word sharper than the last. “You did it because you knew she didn’t deserve it. Because you know none of them do.”
August’s eyes flickered. Something cracked. I stepped back instinctively and hit the edge of his desk. His hands came down on either side of me, bracing against the wood, caging me in.
The shelves rattled with books—and in the unseen loom, threads whirred like struck harp strings, warning that neither of us could retreat unscathed.
I sucked in a breath, pulse pounding as his presence swallowed mine.
“You think you understand me?” His words pressed against me like the tip of a knife. “You think you know what I’ve done? What I’ve had to do?”
I swallowed hard, tilting my chin up. “I think you want to pretend you don’t care,” I whispered back. “But you do. Tell me I’m wrong.”
He said nothing. Did nothing. But I could feel the war behind his eyes. He hated that I saw right through him. Hated that I was right. His eyes traced over me. His fingers twitched at his sides, like he was restraining himself.
My breath was uneven, chest rising and falling too quickly as I stood there, locked in this impossible standoff. August was close. Close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from him, the tension in every line of his frame.
“You should go,” he said, low, strained. “Before you say something you regret.”
I leaned in. Just enough to make him notice. To make him feel it. “And yet, you haven’t walked away.”
His jaw tensed, as he unpinned me from the desk. “I said go.”
But he didn’t move. So neither did I.
The space between us pulsed—charged with something unspoken, undeniable. A thread stretched too tight, seconds from snapping.
“Make me.”
His breath hitched. Barely. A small shift, but I saw it.
His eyes locked onto mine, those hazel pools reaching into the depths of my soul.
For a moment, neither of us moved. Then—slowly, deliberately—he lifted a hand. Not to push me away. To brush a thumb along my jaw. He leaned in slightly, close enough that I could feel the whisper of his breath against my temple.
“Tell me darling.” The word was a blade wrapped in silk. “Do you even know what game you are playing?”
His touch was light. Tentative, almost. Like he was still fighting it. Like he knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t stop this now.
I stilled, my heart slamming against my ribs. “I’m not playing games.”
“Are you sure? You taunt me with your naked body. Push me out of my comfort zone every chance you get.”
His tone dropped, low and raw. “Do not feign innocence.” He leaned in, lips nearly brushing mine. “You are caught as firmly in my web as I in yours.”
A floorboard popped in the corridor; August’s arm tightened—half-protective, half-possessive.
For one suspended breath we both waited. Then the sound faded, and so did his restraint
His mouth crashed into mine.
Not gentle. Not tentative. Desperate and demanding and utterly without restraint.
One hand fisted in my hair, tilting my head back, and the other gripped my waist hard enough to bruise.
The force of it drove me back against the desk, and I heard something—a stack of papers, an inkwell—clatter to the floor.
I didn't care.
For a heartbeat, I was too stunned to respond. This wasn't the controlled hunter. This was raw need, barely leashed violence turned to hunger. Then his tongue swept past my lips. I tasted whiskey and cedar, and him and every coherent thought scattered.
I kissed him back like I was drowning and he was air.
My hands found his chest, his shoulders, fisting in the fabric of his shirt as I pulled him closer—closer—until there was no space left between us. He made a sound low in his throat, somewhere between a groan and a growl, and it sent heat pooling low in my belly.
His mouth left mine to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down my jaw, my throat. When his teeth grazed the sensitive skin where my neck met my shoulder, I gasped, my fingers digging into his shoulders.
“August—”
He lifted me onto the desk in one fluid motion, scattering books and papers in every direction.
The sharp crack of something hitting the floor barely registered.
His hands were everywhere—my waist, my hips, sliding up my ribs—and I wrapped my legs around him instinctively, drawing him flush against me.
The feel of him, hard and wanting, pressed against me made my head spin.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my throat, and the raw profanity from his lips sent a thrill through me. His fingers found the buttons of my blouse, fumbling with the first one.
I threaded my hands into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him hiss. His eyes met mine—wild, pupils blown wide—and for a moment we just stared at each other. Both breathing too hard. Both beyond reason.
“Tell me to stop.” His voice was raw, stripped of all control.
I should have. Every rational part of me knew I should have.
Instead, I pulled him back down to me.
He kissed me again, harder this time, all-consuming, and I gave as good as I got. My hands worked at the buttons of his shirt, desperate to feel skin. When my fingers finally found bare flesh, he shuddered, his control fracturing further.
His hand slid up my thigh, pushing fabric aside, and I arched into him with a sound I didn't recognize as my own. Heat flooded through me, pooling low and insistent. I needed—god, I needed.
August tore his mouth from mine with a gasp that sounded like pain.
He pulled back, chest heaving, hands still gripping my hips like he physically couldn't let go. His hair was wild where I'd run my fingers through it, his shirt half-unbuttoned, lips swollen from kissing.
He looked undone.
“I will not.” The words were ragged, torn from somewhere deep. “I will not do this.”
My heart was still racing, my whole body thrumming with unfulfilled need. “August—”
“No.” He released me like I'd burned him, stumbling back a step. His hands shook as he dragged them through his hair. “This is—this was—”
He looked around at the chaos we'd created. Papers scattered across the floor. Books knocked from the desk. The evidence of his shattered control laid bare.
When his eyes met mine again, there was anguish there. Raw and bleeding.
“You think this changes anything?” His words came out harsh, but I heard the tremor underneath. “That this will somehow make me less of what I am?” His laugh was bitter. “I'm my father's son, Lily. I'll always be my father's son. I'm a hunter. And you're—”
He cut himself off, jaw clenching so hard I heard his teeth grind.
“What am I?” I demanded.
He looked at me then—really looked at me—and there was something like agony in his eyes.
“Everything I shouldn't want.”
The words hung between us like a confession and a condemnation.
He turned toward the door, but he only made it two steps before he stopped. His whole body went rigid, hands clenching into fists at his sides.
For a moment, I thought he'd leave.
Then he spun back.
He crossed the space between us in three strides and cupped my face in both hands, kissing me again. Hard. Fierce. Like he was trying to brand the memory of it into both of us. Seconds that rewrote everything.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against mine. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. His hands trembled where they held my face.
“I cannot trust myself with you,” he whispered. “Do you understand? I cannot—”
He released me and stepped back, and this time when he turned away, he didn't look back.
His hand reached for the doorframe as if he needed it to stay upright. Then he was gone, leaving me on his desk with my clothes in disarray, my lips swollen, and the ghost of his touch still burning on my skin.
The books we'd knocked to the floor lay scattered like casualties.
And in the loom of fate, a thread pulled taut—then snapped.