Page 107 of The Heart Trials

My fingers find his neck. I trace his jaw, the slight roughness where he hasn’t shaved, a shape that I’ve only seen but never touched. He’s still and quiet, like he’s holding his breath. My thumb brushes the hollow beneath his cheekbone, then higher, over the arch of his brow, down the bridge of his nose as if I could memorize him.

And then my fingers reach his mouth.

He exhales against my touch. His lips are soft, slightly parted. I let my thumb rest there, just for a moment—just long enough to feel the warmth of his breath, the realness of him. The patter in my chest picks up. His lips are full. Something about the feel of his mouth makes me ache.

“I wanted to remember,” I whisper. “In case you vanish again.”

“I won’t,” he says, his voice rough. “I would hold you if I could. To help with tomorrow, I mean.” He clears his throat.

“You can. For a moment.”

“I have to keep an eye out here.”

“A moment. Caelus. Please.” My words are a breath, a desperate plea. “If it could make us stronger. If it could help us be ready for whatever comes tomorrow. We have to.”

I can hear him breathing, thinking. I rest my hand on his chest where his heart works harder than mine. The door shifts open another few inches, the wood groaning softly in protest. Light from the corridor cuts through the darkness in my room like a sliver of moonlight—and then Caelus’s face appears.

He’s more striking in the dim light than I remember—unnaturally beautiful in a way that almost hurts to look at. His bruises are gone. His long white hair is not braided today. It spills around his face in loose silken strands, catching the light like frost on glass. Shadows cling to the edges of his features, but his eyes—goodness, his eyes—they cut through me like shards of glass, piercing and sharp, like the heart of a glacier. They flicker down to me, holding something fragile and aching.

He pulls me up to standing, still connected by our hands. Then those eyes soften. He leans forward. Not fully into the room, not yet. But close enough that I feel the heat of him. I step back, pulling him through the doorway into the privacy of my room. He doesn’t resist as I guide him, one slow step, then another, eyes locked on mine, transfixed. The door creaks softly behind him, then stills. His hand doesn’t leave mine. Our fingers are still laced together, warm and trembling. The knot at his throat bobs.

“Axira,” he says. “You’re okay. It’s so good to see that you’re okay.” I watch the words come out of his mouth, unable to look away from the lips I just touched. How would they feel against mine? I think he might be shaking. Or maybe that’s me. “I shouldn’t be in here,” he murmurs.

I tighten my hold on him. But he is. He’s here. And I feel more hopeful than I have in days. It makes me feel more alive. He lifts his free hand and brushes a strand of hair from my cheek. His touch is featherlight, so soft, and it kindles something inside me. My skin tingles as if my body’s only just learning what it means to be touched without violence or command.

“You look…” His throat moves as he swallows. “I love the way you look right now.”

My skin is crusted and puffy from crying. There are no colorful pastes and brushed powders all over me. My cheeks flush. I look away. I look like me. Not like the me Syra, the Citadel, wants me to be. But, truly me. That’s who Caelus sees. That’s who Caelus likes.

He guides my gaze up, tipping my chin, and we lock eyes. “I can’t think of the words,” he goes on. “I’m just so glad you’re alright.” He tugs on my arm, pulling me against his chest, and I sink into his hold. His arms swallow me, his chin resting on my head. The hum of his heart calms mine.

I do feel stronger. I do.

I look up at him. His gaze dips to my mouth. “I want to kiss you,” he says.

My heart pounds. I’m a string, stretched taut, about to snap. “I want to kiss you too.”

“For strength.”

“Yes, tomorrow. The trial.”

He swallows, his gaze still on my mouth.

I can kiss him.

Just once. For strength, for power, for freedom.

It can mean nothing more than that.

He slims the distance between our mouths.

This is practical.

This will make me strong.

This is what I want.

The first touch of his lips is barely that—a breath, a question, the lightest pressure. My mouth parts instinctively. Not from knowledge, but from something deeper, want. I yearn to suffocate the space between us. To consume him completely.