Page 187 of Shifting Hearts 1
One of his hands slid under my thigh, lifting it higher. The new angle made me cry out. He grinned, sweat dripping from his brow, and thrust harder, deeper.
“Right there?” he rasped.
“Gods, yes—Brannan, please?—”
He leaned down, teeth grazing my shoulder, then bit — not enough to hurt, but enough to mark. My orgasm slammed into me seconds later, pleasure tearing through me like lightning, and I sobbed his name as I shattered around him.
He didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, riding every pulse, every spasm, until I was gasping, shaking, on the edge of breaking again.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered against my skin. “Let me have all of you.”
“Yes,” I moaned. “I’m yours—take it—take everything.”
He groaned, thrusts turning ragged as he neared the edge. Then his rhythm stuttered. He drove into me once, twice, then came with a hoarse cry, spilling deep inside me, his body shaking over mine.
We stayed locked together, trembling, breath tangled, magic humming between us.
This wasn’t fate.
This wasn’t prophecy.
It was a new bond forged in fire, in flesh, in choice.
We were reborn in that moment — no longer cursed or tethered by the Wyrd’s cruel designs.
Just two souls who had chosen each other, and I would never let him fade again.
TEN
Brannan
The cathedral couldn’t hold us anymore. The magic that had once flared through its bones like wildfire had died out, leaving behind ash, silence, and the weight of what we’d done. The walls still whispered of endings. Of survival, but not of sanctuary.
So we left.
There were no words at first. Just her hand at the small of my back, steady and warm, as if she feared I might unravel again if she let go. I wasn’t so sure that she was wrong.
The air smelled of decay and smoke. Ice still clung to the roots in the shaded hollows, but the trees had started their slow exhale toward undoing the damage the King and Queen had left in their wake. Eris walked beside me like someone who wasn’t afraid of the wind anymore.
Her cottage waited at the edge of the woods, crooked and stubborn, as if it had grown there from the roots and shadows themselves. The timbered walls leaned at impossible angles, their joints gnarled like old bones, and the roof sagged underthe weight of moss and memory. The door stuck, swollen with damp and age, and creaked a long, slow protest when she pushed it open. Inside, the hearth still remembered how to catch, flickering with a shy, amber warmth, though soot and ash clung to the stone like remnants of old spells. The rafters were strung with dried herbs, their leaves brittle, scenting the air with rosemary, bitter mint, and the faint copper tang of iron—reminders of both healing and sacrifice. Shadows gathered in the corners, thick and still, curling around the edges of the furniture like silent guardians. Bone charms, carved from teeth and talismans of things long dead, leaned against shelves or dangled from nails; some hummed faintly, echoes of spells cast and oaths broken. It wasn’t whole. It had scars and secrets, cracks that whispered of past power and past pain. But it was hers. And in its crooked, stubborn way, it welcomed me too.
She stripped the bloodstained remnants from my skin and bathed me without ceremony. The basin steamed, her fingers careful as she worked the grit from my hair, the dried blood from my neck. Not healer’s hands. Not lover’s hands. Something older.
“You’re too gentle with me,” I murmured, watching her work.
Her mouth curved faintly. “You’ve had enough pain.”
“I could say the same for you.”
“You could,” she said softly, wringing out the cloth. “But you won’t.”
When she pressed her forehead to mine, she whispered, “I’m glad you came back.”
I could’ve lied and said I never left, but we both knew better. So I told her the only truth that mattered. “I will again and again.Everytime.”
Her eyes shone. “Don’t promise me that unless you truly mean it.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean Bones.”
