Chapter 42
AUGUST
The tent was impossibly small with both of us inside.
Canvas walls pressed close, a thin barrier between us and the mountain winds.
Somewhere in the pines, an owl called, and the faint muffle of voices from the other Weavers' tents carried on the wind—but here, in this pocket of warmth, the world had narrowed too only her.
Lily had already settled onto her bedroll, though tension coiled in her shoulders, holding herself upright against the pull of exhaustion. Two bedrolls lay side by side, a handspan of space between them.
I lingered by the opening, tugging my boots off with unnecessary force, replaying the night in endless loops—Ysella’s capture, Hayes’s death, the blood and the fire. But above it all, louder than grief, louder than fear, was the thought that I had almost lost her.
“You don’t have to hover. I’m not going to break.”
I froze, one boot in hand. “I know you won’t break,” I said. “But you nearly unraveled yourself tonight. That’s not something to dismiss.”
She turned toward me, that stubborn line to her jaw I’d once hated—and now found impossible not to admire. “I did what I had to do. Just like Ysella.”
“And look where that left her.” The words came out sharper than intended, and the flicker of hurt in her eyes gutted me.
“That’s not fair,” she whispered.
I dragged a hand over my face, the bruises and aches of the night settling heavy in my bones.
“No. It’s not. Forgive me.” I forced myself to meet her gaze, to see her pale skin, the faint tremor of her hands—not from cold, but from magic drained too far.
“I don't know what I would have done if they'd taken you.
You have become. . . essential to me, Lily. And if I'd lost you—”
I couldn't finish. There were no words for that kind of devastation.
Her eyes softened, defenses lowering. “But you didn’t. I’m here.”
“You’re here,” I echoed, the words tasting like a prayer. “Safe.”
She corrected me gently, “We’re safe. For now.”
I sank onto my bedroll. My coat stayed on, my last thin armor. Still, I could feel the heat of her presence, too close, not close enough.
The lantern burned low, spilling amber across her face. She shifted restlessly, the sound of fabric brushing fabric loud in the hush. Outside, night birds called, wind sighed through pines—but in here, the air moved to her rhythm.
“August?”
“Yes?”
“Are you truly going to attempt to sleep like that?” she asked, eyes glinting in the dim light. Her hair spilled like fire across the bedroll. She looked both weary and wickedly curious.
“For propriety’s sake,” I admitted.
Her lips curved. “I think we’re rather past worrying about propriety, don’t you?” A pause, a flicker of vulnerability.
I shrugged out of my coat at last. My hands stilled on the buttons of my torn shirt—this was madness—but the fabric was ruined, blood-stiffened. I stripped it off.
The Weavers had done impressive work. Where the bullet had torn through, only a pink scar remained—tender to the touch, but whole. Magic could knit flesh, but it couldn't erase the memory of pain.
Bare skin in this small space was perilous, a confession in itself. Her gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long.
But when I lay back down, my whole body was aware of her. The lamplight traced her cheekbones, her lashes, the curve of her mouth. I couldn’t look away.
“I don’t want to be alone,” she whispered. “Especially not tonight.”
I reached across the space between us. Her hand met mine halfway, fingers intertwining like they'd been made to fit.
“You won’t be,” I vowed. “Not while I draw breath. Not ever.”
Her eyes fluttered, heavy with exhaustion, but her hand stayed clasped in mine. “What if. . . what if I wanted to stay? Even when this is over?”
The question cut through me, sharp as a blade, sweet as salvation. Stay. With me. Always. The words burned in my throat, but I couldn't speak them—not when I had nothing to offer but a life of running. Not when she deserved so much more.
“Sleep now,” I murmured, watching her eyes flutter closed. “I'll keep watch.”
“You need rest too,” she protested, but her words were already slurred with approaching dreams.
“I will. Later.”
But I didn't sleep. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Hayes—the confusion in his gaze as my blade found his heart, the way he'd looked at me like I was a stranger. The truth is I was. To him. To my father. To the man I'd been yesterday.
So instead, I kept watch over the woman who'd made that stranger possible. Who'd shown me there was something worth becoming beyond my father's weapon.
Instead, I lay there watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
She murmured something soft, already half-dreaming, and shifted closer—just an inch, but enough that her hair brushed my shoulder.
I went utterly still, barely breathing, as if any movement might shatter this fragile sanctuary.
In sleep, she looked younger. Unguarded. The fierce Weaver who'd nearly torn herself apart tonight replaced by the woman who'd once quoted history in my study, who'd challenged every certainty I'd built my life upon.
I had been so certain of who I was. What I believed. Then she arrived and unmade me, thread by thread, until I no longer recognized the man I'd been.
And damn me for a fool, I wouldn't go back. Not for anything.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges. Tonight, though, this fierce, impossible woman had chosen to trust me with her vulnerability—a woman I had once been trained to destroy, who now held my heart more surely than any chain.
The irony should have been bitter, but instead it was the most natural thing in the world.
Outside, the wind carried the scent of pine and frost. Danger pressed close. But here, in this fragile sanctuary, I kept vigil over the woman who had undone me, who had turned enemy into ally, and ally into something far more dangerous.