Page 73 of Iron Roses

“What about me?”

It stretches between us, taut like a string pulled between fingertips.

He doesn’t look away.

Not from me.

Not this time.

“Can you love me?” I ask. “Can you love both of us?”

The question burns on the way out.

It isn’t just about him.

It’s about my father, riddled with bullets before I could forgive him.

It’s about my mother leaving behind answers buried in stone and letters.

It’s about Giovanna—beautiful, reckless, loved. A sister I barely knew, and yet mourn like half my soul was buried with her.

The tears come before I feel them.

A single drop streaks down my cheek.

Cassian scoots closer.

He lifts a hand—doesn’t wipe it away.

Instead, he leans in and presses his lips to the damp path beneath my eye.

A kiss. Gentle. Salt and warmth.

Another to my other eye.

Then my nose.

Soft, breath brushing skin.

We’re barely touching, but every inch of air between us feels charged—like lightning waiting for permission.

Finally, his mouth finds mine.

I climb into his lap, knees sinking into the sand on either side of him, the wind catching my dress and lifting it like breath. His hands go to my hips instinctively, steadying me, grounding me. But he doesn't pull me closer. He waits.

My chest brushes his. I kiss him again—deeper.

My hands roam up the crisp cotton of his shirt, fingers pressing over his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart beneath fabric and bone. I kiss him like I need to steal that rhythm, to know what it feels like to live inside his pulse, just for a moment.

I find the first button and undo it. Then the next. My fingers fumble—not because I’m nervous, but because I’m burning. Every inch of skin I reveal feels sacred. His collarbone, warm and golden in the dipping light. The slope of his chest, lightly dusted with hair. The edge of a scar that disappears beneath the fabric I haven’t pushed aside yet.

I lean in, inhaling him.

My lips press to his throat, just under his jaw, where his pulse beats. I taste him there. His breath hitches. His fingers tighten slightly on my hips, not enough to bruise, but enough to feel.

I slide my hands under his shirt—palms flat to his bare chest, dragging down over hard muscle, over the center of him. His skin is warm, smooth, alive under my touch. I trace every dip, every tense line, learning him by feel. I press my nose to the hollow of his shoulder and breathe him in again.

He exhales softly, his mouth brushing my temple, then my jaw. His hands roam up my sides, over the curve of my waist, anchoring me in his lap.

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