Page 124 of Crown of Thorns
He nods. “Binding. Irrevocable. You didn’t sign one before. That was an oversight.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“Then you walk out of here and never come back.”
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. My fingers curl around the pen, and I press it to the page. “I’ll sign it.” The sound of my name sliding across the paper is too loud in the quiet room. But when it’s done, I look up and I don’t regret it.
Jean-Luc studies me for a beat longer. “Good. Because if you ever betray this family again, if Louis bleeds because of you, I will make sure no one finds where I bury you.”
There’s a knock at the door. Arthur slips in, wearing pale linen, eyes shining as if he’s been crying. He doesn’t say anything. He just steps aside and Louis walks in behind him.
My heart drops to my knees.
He’s barefoot, swimming in sweats and a loose cotton shirt that hangs off him like a memory. Wrinkled. Pale. Unsteady. His hair is unwashed, falling messily into his eyes. There are purple half-moons under both of them.
He stops when he sees me. His lips part. His breath hitches, and something flickers in his expression—shock, hope, disbelief.
I’m already across the room. “Louis...”
He surges toward me with a broken, desperate noise. I catch him before he stumbles. His arms wrap around my neck, pulling me close, trembling against me. I bury my face in his shoulder. He smells like hospital soap and himself.
“I thought I’d lost you,” I whisper.
He whimpers. “You didn’t.”
Louis squeezes my hand nearly painfully, a crooked grin tugging at his lips—mischief and relief warring on his face. Then he falters, like he's seeing my face for the first time in forever. The others leave the room quietly. I don’t hear the door close, only the silence they leave behind. It’s just us now.
Finally.
“You still want me.” His voice is hoarse, as if he hasn't spoken in days. There’s so much packed into those four words it nearly breaks me.
Beneath the warmth of his skin, I feel the tremble of a soul still healing and the way his breath stutters in my neck confirms it. He clings to me, but there’s a hesitation in his weight, like part of him isn’t sure I’ll stay. He’s not hiding anymore, not behind his charm, not behind defiance. This is Louis, open and raw. Fragile in a way I’ve never seen.
And it terrifies me, because I realize I can’t just love him, I have to prove it. Fight for him. Earn back every second we lost.
Lifting our hands, my chest swells, and I kiss every single one of his fingers one by one, tracing the ink with my tongue. Our eyes meet.
“I love you, Louis. I’m so sorry… so fucking sorry.” I guide him closer to my chest, needing to feel his warmth. Desperate to give him mine.
He leans forward, uncoordinated but certain that I’ll catch him if he falls. “You’re not allowed to leave me. Ever.”
His words ignite me alive, and we grab each other’s face with trembling hands.
“I won’t.” My voice is steady now, anchored by the weight of him in my arms.
35
LOUIS
The office smells like old power and older secrets—dark oak walls, leather-bound books, and a ghost of cigar smoke thick in the air. Dad ushers Arthur out with a nod and a firm pat on the back, closing the door to give us space. The latch clicks, and suddenly it’s just us. I breathe him in before I even touch him—cedar soap, city rain, something worn and warm and unmistakably him. He smells like home and heartbreak. The skin of Noah’s biceps feels warm and smooth under my fingertips, until I touch jagged edges. He sucks in a breath. My chest tightens, anticipation curling inside me like smoke, because I need this to be real. I need to know he came back for me, not out of guilt, but out of love. I need to believe he still wants me.
He doesn’t speak right away. His eyes flick to mine, full of something unnameable, such as fear, regret and determination. His hands flex at his sides, like he’s fighting the urge to reach for me. His throat bobs. I watch a tremor pass through his shoulders, and it roots me to the spot.
My fingers ache with the need to touch him, but I make myself wait. Just one more heartbeat. Just to be sure he’s real. Just to be sure I’m not mistaking hope for fact. I should befurious still. I should remind him of the way he left me bleeding in that basement. But all I feel is the press of longing, the pull of him that’s stronger than betrayal.
“Why did you come?” I ask quietly. “Really.”
“Because I couldn’t not come,” he whispers. “I couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing you again. Of never touching you again. I wanted to make it right.”
