Chapter 37
LILY
Garrick winked at me, a familiar grin slipping back into place.
“Try not to shatter time while I’m gone, Red.”
With that, he vanished into the corridor, boots thudding softly against the marble.
The kitchen fell still. No more accusations. No more firelight flickering over truths we could no longer outrun. Just August and me—and the quiet that settled like dust after something important had been said.
August stripped off his blood-flecked coat like it offended him, flung it across a chair, then swung back to face me. The pendant clutched in one fist as though he meant to crush the hourglass into confession.
He raked a shaking hand through his hair. “Torch-smoke. Screaming candles. I watched you break the night in half, and I still have no idea how. You lied about being a Weaver.”
The kettle shrilled; neither of us moved to lift it.
For half a heartbeat, the kitchen trembled with the weight of those words. Steam hissed from the kettle; frost laced the panes. Something in the Weave thrummed—expectant, almost hopeful.
“I never lied,” I said quietly. Removing the kettle from the heat. “Not about the Weavers. Not about who I am.”
He looked at me, eyes guarded.
“I didn’t know,” I told him. “Not until the Weavers found me. In my version of Oxford—my time—there are no Weavers. No Unravelers. Magic has been erased.”
I hesitated. My throat tightened. “I never had magic. Not until I came here. Not until they untangled what was already inside me.”
August stared, motionless.
“My threads were a mess,” I continued. “Knotted. Twisted up in time and grief and whatever fate thinks it’s playing at. But they helped me see it—to feel it.”
I met his gaze, steady now.
“I can stop this, August. I can stop him. But I’m going to need your help.”
His brow furrowed. “Why you?”
“Because your mother’s necklace brought me here,” I said. “Not to change the past—but to mend it.”
I stepped closer, heart pounding. “She couldn’t stop what she saw coming. But I can. With you.”
August didn’t answer. But his grip on the edge of the table loosened until his hands fell away entirely. The tension in his shoulders didn’t.
“You shouldn’t trust me,” he said. “You still don’t know what I’ve done. Who I’ve been.”
Some small, buried voice still warned me to do just that. But I was so tired of holding it all alone. I let the quiet make space for whatever he needed to say.
August turned, the firelight catching in his eyes, wild and desperate and raw.
“Every rule I've lived by, you've shattered.” The words came out rough, scraped raw. “Every wall I built, you've climbed. I don’t know what magic you’ve used on me, but I'd follow you through centuries if that's what it took to stay at your side.”
My chest tightened.
“I’ve lived in the shadow of a man who made me hate what I didn’t understand. I stood by while Weavers turned to nothing. I believed it was justice.”
His breath shuddered out. “But I see it now. I see you.”
He moved closer—not stalking, not hunting—but drawn like the Weave itself was pulling him toward me. Like all those walls he'd built had finally crumbled and there was nothing left to keep him away.
“I will right my wrongs. I will burn the name Hawthorne to ash if I must. Just. . . don’t ask me to watch you fall.”
He stopped just in front of me.
“You’re the only thread I can never let go.” His words broke on the last syllable.
I stood frozen.
Not out of fear. But because something in me—something old and aching and buried too deep to name—recognized the truth in his words.
He was a weapon. Forged by loss. Sharpened by lies.
Yet here he was, unraveling at my feet.
That was it. The moment I stopped pretending I wasn’t already tied to him.
I reached for him slowly, giving him time to pull away if he wanted. But he didn't move. Didn't breathe.
My fingers found the edge of his jaw first—rough with stubble, warm beneath my touch. Then higher, tracing the bruised line under his eye with a gentleness I hadn't known I possessed.
“Does it hurt?” I whispered.
“Yes. But not the way you think.”
His hand came up to catch mine, pressing my palm flat against his cheek. His eyes closed like my touch was both agony and relief.
“You're not the only one who's changed,” I whispered. My hand was still against his face, and I couldn't seem to make myself let go. “I met the weavers, met you, and suddenly. . . suddenly it all became more complicated. And terrifying. And real.”
I searched his eyes. “You were supposed to be the enemy. The hunter. The one I had to hide from. But instead you're—” I couldn't finish. Couldn't name what he'd become to me.
“I’m what?” The question came out barely audible, desperate.
“Everything I shouldn't want,” I admitted. “And the only thing I cannot let go of.”
He leaned in slowly, giving me a chance to pull away.
I didn't.
His hand slid from mine to cup the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone with something close to reverence. Like he was afraid I might vanish if he wasn't careful. Like I was made of threads too delicate to hold.
“Lily.” My name on his lips was half question, half prayer.
I answered by closing the distance between us. Our lips met—not with fireworks, but with gravity.
The inevitable pull of two forces that had been circling each other for weeks, finally colliding. A quiet, trembling sort of kiss. The kind that rewrites you from the inside out. The kind that says: you're not alone anymore.
His other hand found my waist, pulling me closer—not possessive, just desperate to have me near. And I let him. Let myself melt into him like I'd been cold for centuries and he was the first warmth I'd found.
We stayed like that for a long moment—foreheads touching, breathing each other's air, neither of us willing to be the first to step back.
“What now?” I whispered. His hand was still at my waist, anchoring me.
“Now we stop my father. Together.”
“Together,” I agreed.
When we pulled apart, the hourglass pendant at his neck shimmered faintly—like the magic inside it had finally exhaled.