Page 144 of Stolen Harmony
He gathered me in, holding me so tightly I could feel his heart hammering against my own. “You won’t. Not this time. I’ll fight for us, Rowan. Even if it takes the rest of my life.”
I kissed him then, slow and sure, letting my lips linger, letting all the words I couldn’t say settle between us in the hush of the room. We’d survived the storm—maybe not unscathed, but alive, still reaching for each other in the dark.
He held my face, foreheads pressed together, and for the first time in months, I let myself believe it. That we could be more than what had broken us. That we could heal. That, whatever came next, we would face it side by side.
We drifted like that, neither ready for sleep, but unwilling to let go. After a long while, Elias said softly, “Tomorrow, I’ll make some calls. I’ll start setting things in motion. We deserve peace, Rowan. We deserve to breathe.”
I nodded, letting hope take root, tentative but alive. “Promise me something?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t leave again. Not without telling me why.”
He nodded, pulling me close, wrapping his whole body around me like he could shield me from everything that waited outside. “Never. Not again. Not unless you tell me to go.”
I smiled into his skin, letting the warmth of his promise carry me away.
For the first time in a long time, I was sure of something: tomorrow might not be easy, but it was ours to claim. And I was done letting fear decide for me.
With Elias beside me, I was finally ready to start over.
And this time, we’d do it right.
Chapter 28
Fall of a Vulture
Elias
Iwoke to the sound of Rowan's breathing, steady and deep beside me in the narrow bed.
Three days. That's how long I'd been in his New York apartment, sleeping on sheets that smelled like him, watching him move through the small space with the careful economy of someone who'd learned to live light. Three days of tentative conversations and shared meals and the fragile hope that felt like holding glass in bare hands.
He was still asleep, face relaxed in a way that made him look younger, more like the boy his mother had talked about with such fierce pride. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and I had to resist the urge to brush it back, to touch him in a way that might wake him and remind us both how complicated this was.
The morning light filtering through his thin curtains painted everything in shades of gold and possibility. Outside, New York was waking up with its usual chaos of sirens and car horns and the constant hum of eight million people trying to make it through another day. But inside this small room, therewas just the two of us and the weight of everything we hadn't said yet.
My phone buzzed against the nightstand, pulling me out of thoughts that were becoming increasingly dangerous. A text from my lawyer:
Event confirmed tonight. Midtown. I have what you need.
I closed the message and set the phone aside carefully, not wanting to wake Rowan. Today was the day. After weeks of quiet investigation, of following paper trails and making discrete inquiries, everything was finally in place. Victor had played his hand, and now it was time to play mine.
Rowan stirred beside me, a soft exhale that made my chest tighten with want I was still learning to acknowledge. His eyes opened slowly.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep.
“Morning.”
“Coffee?” he asked, already starting to sit up.
“I'll make it.”
“You don't have to?—”
“I want to.”
The simple words carried more weight than they should have, but Rowan just nodded and settled back against the pillows. I'd been making his coffee for three mornings now, had learned how he liked it strong and black, had memorized the way his face relaxed when he took that first sip.
