Page 93 of Call It What You Want
“What is it?” Ava asks, her voice quiet so she doesn’t wake Jameson.
I glance at the screen, then back at her. “It’s my uncle John. The senior council ruled in our favor.” I exhale, the tension that’s lived in my body for months finally easing. “It’s over.”
Thank-fucking-God.
For a long moment, neither of us says anything. But there’s a shift in the air. Subtle, but poignant. The stillness between us isn’t heavy anymore; it feels like release.
My father once told me power meant making impossible choices and living with the fallout.
I made my choice a long time ago.
I chose Ava. I chose our son. And now, I choose a life built on something real. Something that isn’t ruled by fear or legacy.
Maybe this is what power really is: choosing love, and never looking back.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ava
His thumb lingers at my waist, and I can’t help but glance down, catching sight of the ring sparkling on my finger. It’s extravagant, more than I ever imagined, the diamond catching the light like he plucked a star right out of the night sky and secured it to a gold band.
I look back up at him, and he’s watching me with that intensity that always makes my chest ache. “You like it?” he murmurs, voice rough.
I can only nod, words failing me, my fingers brushing over the diamond.
“We should…” I start, but my voice trails off when his gaze drops to my mouth.
“Should what?” he asks, his voice is rough, low.
“...Get some sleep,” I finish, but there’s no conviction in the words.
He braces one hand on the headboard behind my head, leaning in until I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. “I’m not tired…”
Oh.
“Then we should?—”
He cuts me off, his free hand finding my waist under the blankets, his thumb brushing the sliver of skin where my shirt has ridden up. I gasp.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.
My hands splay on his chest, one thumb brushing over his nipple. “Don’t you dare,” I say.
A sound, somewhere between a groan and a growl, escapes his throat. His hand drops to my hip, and he tugs me closer, his fingers biting into my skin painfully. He dips his head, so his mouth is hovering just above my lips.
“You’ve been through so much the last few nights,” he whispers, his breath hot against my lips. Then he kisses me. Slow at first, tender, questioning, but I push back, deepening it, claiming, desperate, until all that’s left is the language of our bodies.
His kiss tells me everything.
We’re here. We’re okay. We survived.
Our bodies remember what our minds sometimes forget—how seamlessly we fit together, how we’ve always been each other’s safety, even when we didn’t realize it. Every brush of his skin is a promise, a reminder that no matter what comes, we’ll face it side by side.
My hands slide across his skin, mapping familiar territory that still feels like home. Every breath, every point of contact is a conversation—about survival, about love, about us. Not romantic in some movie-perfect way, but real. Raw. Unbreakable.
This is how we heal. This is how we hold on.
He kisses me again, slower this time, less about hunger and more about connection. My pulse steadies under the weight of it. Each touch is deliberate, reverent. His thumb drags along my jaw, down the curve of my neck, and I melt into the familiarityof him—his scent, his warmth, the way he always feels like home after a storm.
