Chapter One Hundred Nine: The Fire That Would Not Burn
Eight months.
Eight months of cold sheets and empty arms and dreams that left me aching and hollow. Eight months of telling myself she was gone, that I'd never feel her warmth again, that the best I could hope for was to join her in whatever afterlife existed for broken men.
And now she was here. Alive. Warm. Mine.
Every nerve in my body was screaming.
She shifted in her sleep, a soft murmur escaping her lips, and pressed closer. Her hand slid from my chest to my stomach, fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt. Her leg hitched higher, and I felt the soft heat of her through the thin cotton of my trousers.
I couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
Could only lie there, rigid as stone, while my body betrayed every intention I had of being a gentleman.
Think of something else. Anything else. The stock market. The weather. Julian's smug face. Anything.
But the only thing I could think of was her. The scent of her hair—different now, a floral shampoo that wasn't hers but somehow still was. The way she fit against me like she'd been carved from my rib. The soft little sounds she made in her sleep, the ones that used to drive me wild in the early mornings when the world was still dark and we were still us.
I shifted, trying to create distance, to give myself room to breathe.
She made a small sound of protest and followed me, her body chasing mine like a flower turning toward the sun.
"Aira." My voice was a rasp, barely audible. "Aira, you need to—"
"Mm." She burrowed closer, her nose pressing into the hollow of my throat. "Warm."
The word nearly undid me.
Warm. She was always warm, a furnace in the night, and I used to tease her about it. You're like a space heater, little star. I should charge you rent for the heat you steal. She'd laugh and push me away, then pull me back, and we'd tangle together in the sheets until neither of us knew where one ended and the other began.
I remembered that laugh.
I remembered everything.
And my body, that traitorous vessel, remembered too.
---
She stirred again.
This time, her eyes fluttered open—half-lidded, still lost in the fog of sleep. She blinked up at me, and for one suspended moment, I saw her without the armor of confusion and fear. Just her. Just Aira. Just the woman who had loved me in a different life.
"Rowan?" The name was soft, uncertain, but it was my name. The one she'd whispered in her sleep. The one she'd cried out in her dreams. The one that belonged to the man who had kissed her moles and worshiped her scars and loved her through every dark thing they'd survived together.
"Shh." I pressed a kiss to her forehead. "Go back to sleep, my love."
But she was already more awake now. Her brow furrowed slightly, her gaze dropping to where her leg was tangled with mine, to where her hand rested on my stomach.
"You're... very tense." She frowned, her fingers pressing experimentally against the hard muscle of my abdomen. "Are you in pain?"
Yes.
Everywhere.
Every cell in my body is on fire, and you're touching me like I'm a puzzle you're trying to solve, and I can't breathe, and I need you more than I've ever needed anything, and I can't move, and I can't stay, and I can't—
"Fine." The word came out strangled. "Just fine."
She didn't believe me. Her hand slid higher, tracing the line of my ribs through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I felt the contact like a brand.
"Your heart is racing." Her eyes met mine, soft and curious and utterly innocent. "Are you having a nightmare?"
Yes. No. Yes. You're the nightmare. You're the dream. You're everything I can't have and can't live without.
"You're so warm," she murmured, settling closer again, her cheek resting on my chest. "I used to dream about this. Someone holding me. Keeping me safe. I didn't know it was you."
"Aira—"
"My body knows." Her voice was dreamy, thick with sleep. "Even when my mind is blank, my body knows. It wants to be close to you. It knows you're safe."
Safe.
I was the furthest thing from safe. I was the fire that would consume her if I let myself burn. I was the hunger that had been starving for eight months, and she was lying in my arms like a feast laid out before a condemned man.
"Did you feel it?" she asked softly, her breath warm against my chest. "The first time you touched me? Did you feel like you were coming home?"
I closed my eyes.
"Yes."
Her hand had drifted down again, resting on my stomach, just below where she'd found the hard tension. She was so innocent. So unaware. The woman I'd married had known exactly what she did to me, had wielded that knowledge like a weapon and a gift. But this version of her—the one with the stolen memories and the gentle curiosity—she was learning the world anew.
She was learning me.
"This is strange," she said, her voice slipping into the soft cadence of near-sleep. "Feeling so safe with someone I barely know. But I do know you, don't I? Somewhere inside, I do."
I pressed another kiss to her hair. "Yes, my love. You do."
She was quiet for a long moment, her breathing evening out, her body relaxing fully against mine. I felt her hand go slack on my stomach.
But I stayed awake.
Staring at the ceiling. Feeling her warmth. Remembering.
And praying to whatever gods might be listening that I could survive the night without breaking.
---
I held her as she slept. Watched the moonlight trace the curve of her cheek, the soft swell of her lips, the tiny mole she was still unconscious of.
My body ached.
But my heart ached more.
Because she was here, in my arms, trusting me—and I would not betray that trust for anything. Not even for the desperate hunger that clawed at my insides like a living thing.
I would wait. I would endure. I would be the man she deserved.
Even if it killed me.
Tomorrow, I would wake her with soft words and gentle touches. I would remind her that she was loved, that she was safe, that she was home.
Tonight, I would simply hold her.
And that, I realized, was more than I'd ever dared to hope for.
---
The moonlight painted her face in silver and shadow. She murmured something, a soft sound, and pressed a kiss to my chest.
Her lips—soft, warm, innocent—brushed the bare skin where my shirt had parted.
Something inside me cracked.
Tomorrow. I can wait until tomorrow.
But as she snuggled closer, her hand drifting lower on my stomach, her leg pressing higher against mine, I knew that tomorrow was not a guarantee.
And that the fire she'd kindled in me eight months ago had never gone out.
It had only been waiting for her return.
---
In her sleep, she smiled.
And I held on.
Because that smile was the only thing that made sense in a world that had turned to chaos.
That smile was my home.
That smile was everything.