Page 79 of Iron Roses

She lets me touch them. For a breath.

Then pulls away like I burned her.

She stares at my fingers like they betrayed her.

“I’m not my sister, Cas. She lives in me—I know that. Every time I close my eyes, she’s there. When I dream, when I feel—sometimes it’s her.”

Her voice tightens.

“But I am not her. I’m not her,” she says again, softer. “And I will never be the woman you loved.”

I want to deny it. But I don’t.

Because I can’t.

Her expression doesn’t change. But her body does. Shoulders pull in. Elbows tighten toward her ribs. Her chin lifts just slightly, and that’s what breaks me—

That she’s trying to look composed even now.

“It’s my sister you want.”

She says it plain. No war in her voice.

“Isn’t it?”

The part of me that used to belong to Giovanna still hums when Elaria speaks with that cadence. Still aches when she smiles without meaning to. Still wants to reach for her when she flinches.

But it’s not Giovanna who came barefoot into my kitchen. It’s not Giovanna who stood in lace and firelight, asking me if I could love her and not just her ghost.

A tear streaks down Elaria’s cheek. She turns.

She disappears down the hall.

I follow without thinking, chest heaving, fists clenched at my sides, every step slamming into the floor like a threat I don’t know how to voice.

She throws the door open. Tears on her cheeks. Eyes like fucking fire.

“Leave me alone,” she screams, voice shattering down the hall.

She goes to slam the door but I’m already there—hand on the wood, pushing it open with my shoulder. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t want me here. I am here. I have to be.

She stares at me, bare feet planted, chest heaving, body trembling. Her hands are fists at her sides. Anger and pain and grief written into every tense line of her. Her face wet. Her eyes red. And so fucking beautiful I can’t breathe.

I cross the room.

And I kiss her.

I kiss her hard—mouth open, tongue sliding past her lips, stealing the breath from her lungs before she can use it to push me away. My hands come up to her cheeks, wet with tears, and I hold her like she’s the only thing keeping me from falling through the floor.

Her hands press to my chest—pushing. Then pulling.

I kiss her deeper.

She moans, low and raw and ragged, and then shoves me back—not to end it, but to take control. She grabs the thin straps of her lace nightgown and yanks them down her arms, strips the whole thing off in one motion and lets it drop to the floor at her feet.

My breath stops.

Her body is all glowing skin and sharp breath. Breasts flushed and bouncing with each rise of her chest. Her nipples hard, taut, begging. The curve of her waist narrowing to her hips,her stomach trembling, thighs tight. Her cunt is already slick between her legs, the shine of it catching in the low light, and my cock throbs hard enough to ache.

---