Not home. Not yet.
But close.
15
DECLAN
After the dustsettles and the kitchen clears, I lead Iris back toward the stairs. She doesn’t say much, but she stays close enough that the backs of our hands keep brushing as we climb. At the landing, she glances back. The kitchen light catches every face still turned toward her, some curious, some exhausted, and something close to respect rests on a few. There’s not a single one of them looking at her as if she’s a problem that needs to be solved.
Once at the top, we start making our way down the hallway, but as we approach her room, she doesn’t stop as expected. No. She keeps going, her steps quiet but certain, heading straight for the end of the hall. My bedroom.
It’s a mess.
I left the window open when we ran out to deal with the incursion. And at some point, the wind knocked a glass of water off the dresser, leaving it to dry into a ring across the wood. Blankets are hanging half on the bed, half on the floor. My boots are where I left them when I took them off in the dark. It’s definitely not somewhere you’d bring a guest to on purpose. But I’ve never been one to do that kind of thing anyway. I don’t like sharing my space.
She shuts the door behind her and leans against it. Her arms folded over her chest, barely holding it together. The soft glow of light coming from the window illuminates her blonde hair.
I stand in the middle of the room, unable to sit, unable to breathe. Everything in me screams relief and terror all at the same time.
“Do you really want this?” she finally asks.
Five words. One question.
It’s not only about us, but everything. Whatever we are now, what this bond means, what permanence feels like from the inside. It’s all I see when I look into her eyes: they’re clear but bloodshot around the edges. The way her hands are clenched tight against old wounds that haven’t even begun to heal.
I sit on the foot of the bed, and the springs shriek, the way beds in this house have always done.
“I don’t want anything else,” I say.
She holds my gaze, searching for the truth or even the slightest bit of deception. Iris was raised in a world where people said beautiful things while doing ugly deeds. I wouldn’t blame her if she needed to hear it a hundred times.
I clear my throat. “I meant every word I said in the kitchen, even the times I didn’t say it, when the only thing running through my mind was wanting to protect you. Not for the pack. Not for any reason than I can’t see a world without you in it now. I know… it sounds cliché, but I promise I’ve never said anything less about anything in my life.”
She doesn’t respond, just slides down until she’s sitting on the floor with her knees pulled up and her arms hugging them. For a second, I think she might cry, but instead laughs.
“I didn’t think I’d ever have a say,” she says, propping her chin on her knees. “Not with the bond, or with you. I always thought it was inevitable, not something I had a choice in.”
The silence that follows is the first real peace in days. Or ever. She’s still on the floor, and that doesn’t feel right, so I join her.
There’s hesitation, but only from me. She looks up at me and smiles. Not the cold one she perfected when dealing with her father or the intellectuals in his circle. It’s not the brave and desperate one she used to ask me for mercy. But rather small and honest.
“Come here,” she says, and grabs my shirt to pull me closer.
She kisses me like she’s finally deciding who she wants to be for the first time in her life. It doesn’t feel like possession, or fate, or that she’s taking orders from someone. I taste resolve and the weight of everything she lost, the fear that she’s still scared when it comes to going after what she wants.
She takes my hand, resting it flat against her chest. Her heart is thumping wildly against her ribs. She is the only heartbeat left in the universe that could make mine beat along to the same rhythm.
“We make our own rules now,” I say, and I feel it being echoed back through the bond. It’s easier to breathe, even with our noses smashed clumsily and close together.
She unbuttons my shirt with trembling fingers, slowly. I let her set the pace, even though my claws could do it faster. But she’d probably not appreciate that right now. Eventually, we’re both exposed, nothing left between us; old scars and new ones. Her body is just as marked up as mine. I can’t help running my thumb over the places needles have left tiny, permanent indents on the inside of her arm, the half-healed scab from a recent IV, all of it. She doesn’t try to shy away or hide. If anything, she seems proud.
There’s no script for what’s supposed to happen next, so we make our own. She climbs into my lap, straddling me, her arms around my neck.
“I want you,” she says.
It’s not a dare, but a challenge for me to understand the words left unsaid. That she’s not a victim, she never was, that nothing in her is fragile or dependent, and whatever comes next is hers to choose.
All I can say is, “Okay,” because I’m better at showing than putting it into words.
