I could love this woman. And still she stands here determined to stop me from fulfilling the purpose that defines me.
Her face gives her away. The tight set of her jaw. The fire in her eyes. This isn’t fear driving her—it’s belief. Conviction so deeply rooted that it has shaped her bones.
“I believe that you believe that,” I say, my voice lower now, strained. “But what if you’re wrong?”
“I’m not.”
“But what if you are?”
The tension bleeds from my shoulders despite my better judgment.
“Eri,” I say quietly.
“What?” Her voice is guarded, wary.
“Give me a chance to explain it all then. There’s more to this—more than what I told you.”
She studies me then. Really looks. Searches my face for deception, for weakness, for any sign that this is another lie meant to trap her. Whatever she finds there makes her hesitate.
“Wear the rope,” she says at last. “It won’t kill you, but it will make you human. It’s the only way the two of us leave this room alive.” Sincerity bleeds through her voice.
“You won’t kill me,” I ask, “if I relent?”
Her gaze softens. “I hadn’t planned to,” she admits. “I did—before, but I realize there is information I'm missing. I know that much at least. And I want to know more before I make a decision that could cost humanity hope.” She draws a steady breath. “My goal today was to stop you. Not to kill you. Because I need to know what you know.”
My hands lift, palms open—not in defeat, but in peace. Or perhaps in warning. An unspoken I will not advance hangs between us.
Her grip tightens on the blade, but she doesn’t move.
“I’m trusting you,” I say quietly. “Don’t make me regret it.”
My gaze drops to the rope on the floor. I hesitate only a moment before walking toward it and giving her my back, fully aware of how exposed that makes me.
I bend and retrieve it.
My fingers close around it, and the moment the woven strands brush my skin, I feel the familiar dulling—my power receding, my humanity taking hold once again.
I don’t hesitate to wind it around my wrists, deliberately crossing it above them. When finished, I spin on my heel and hold them out to her.
“I’m placing my life in your hands,” I say. “Risking everything. My purpose. My vow to God to serve him in this. To my brothers. Everything I am.” My voice roughens despite my effort to keep it steady. “I’m asking you to keep your word. Give me enough time to tell you what I have come to know while serving in Heaven—all of it—before you decide whether I deserve to be put to death.”
Her eyes flick from the rope to my face and back again. This is not what she expected.
“This is trust,” I continue. “Tenuous. Fragile. But it’s real, and I offer it up willingly. You need only accept so we may start again.” I step closer, just enough that she can see the truth in my gaze—how overcoming my fear of betrayal is the cost. And how I’m willing to pay it if it means what we’ve built here doesn’t die here.
The silence stretches, thin as a blade. And in that space, something settles in my chest—quiet, terrifying, undeniable.
She is worth the cost. The hope for more with her is, and I won’t see that crushed under the weight of who we are and who we serve in our own ways.
Her God is my God; I just need time to help her understand his ways.
I remain still, wrists bound, my fate in her hands.
Waiting.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Faithful & Faithless
