Paul had seen her break before—anger, jealousy, frustration—but never this.
The night he had nearly died, he had felt her fingers clutching his hand as though they could anchor him to this world. Her voice, raw and trembling, had whispered promises through his haze of pain.
“Whatever happens, Paul… whether you wake or not… I will stay by you. I won’t run anymore. Not from you, not from what we became.”
Those words had burned through the fog of the curse eating at his veins. He had wanted to answer her then, but his throat had been locked by weakness. Now, seeing her eyes red-rimmed and her posture trembling between guilt and relief, he finally understood how deep her fear had run.
He reached for her hand. The touch startled her; for so many years, their contact had been formal, calcula
