CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Some vows determine roads to roam
And keep two hearts from finding home
Seren grips the bedpost,her fingers tightening around the carved wood, her body sinking into the blankets as the truth settles deep in her bones.
She loves him.
Not in the soft, tender way she once thought love was meant to be, but in the kind that roots itself deep and refuses to loosen, no matter how carefully she tries to pry it free.
And she cannot have him.
The two truths sit side by side inside her, equally real, equally immovable.
So she does the only thing she can:
She chooses this moment anyway.
The room is dim, lit only by a low-burning lantern that casts gold against stone. Shadows move with the flicker, shifting across his body, across hers—like the world itself is holding its breath.
Seren’s hands grip tighter around the bedpost, breath unsteady—not from fear, but from the weight of her own decision settling into her body.
No one brought her here. No one chose this for her. Every step, every touch, every breath between them—hers. And finally, that truth doesn’t terrify her. It steadies her. Grounds her. Anchors her in a way that is wholly, undeniably her own.
The air feels warmer here. Thicker. Like every inhale draws him deeper into her lungs. Teddy looks at her like a man waking slowly from a very long winter.
Seren watches Teddy for a moment. Really watches him as he steps out of his pants, and presents himself bare before her.
The man she loves.
The man she will not have.
There was a time she would have fought that truth. Twisted herself around it, tried to reshape it into something kinder, easier to hold. But she is not that girl anymore.
Now, she lets it exist exactly as it is.
And she takes what she wants from him anyway.
Moisture beads at the tip of his cock.
Elyssara told her about this. Tried to prepare her for this. And her belly flutters, anyway.
She watches the man she loves. The breadth of him, the imposing figure he cuts. Every hard line. Every honed muscle. The dark blond hair he keeps short and efficient. The stubble that darkens the sharp cut of his jaw.
All of it: beautiful. Not perfect in the way stories describe men—better. More real. Solid. Scarred in places no one ever has the privilege of seeing.Except her.
He kneels before her on the bed, positioning himself between her thighs. He leans forward, his corded forearms bracketing each side of her face.
“Are you ready?” he asks, voice all gravel.
Her pulse stutters, not with doubt, but anticipation sharp enough to almost feel like fear.
Seren smirks. “Will it feel likethat?” she asks, referring to whatever happened between her thighs before.
Teddy huffs a laugh, a smirk lifting his mouth. “I won’t stop until it does,” he promises, and she knows he means it.He always means it.Teddy and his godsdamned word.
He’s hard for her already, thick and flushed with need.
