Chapter 32 — Until Morning
1447 Words
The night deepened long after the fire had quieted.
The cave breathed cold air in slow waves, the forest whispering beyond its narrow mouth. Moonlight slipped across the stone floor in pale silver ribbons.
Linda trembled again.
This time harder.
Stanton had not been sleeping.
He rarely did.
He lay on his back, eyes half-closed, listening to the rhythm of the forest and the fragile rhythm beside him.
Her scent shifted first.
Fear.
Salt.
Memory.
Her body jerked sharply.
“No—”
The word tore out of her in a strangled whisper.
Her hands clawed at nothing, fingers digging into the blanket beneath her.
Another tremor ran through her.
Her injured leg twitched violently, and she sucked in a sharp breath even in sleep.
Stanton moved instantly.
He slid closer and pulled her into him, one arm anchoring her shoulders, the other steady at her waist.
“Linda.”
Her breathing fractured.
“Don’t— don’t touch—”
Her body twisted violently, and she woke mid-strike.
Her fist slammed into his jaw.
He absorbed the hit, head snapping slightly.
Before she could swing again, he caught both her wrists and pinned them gently but firmly above her head.
The firelight flickered over her face.
Her eyes were wild.
Unfocused.
Then slowly—
Recognition returned.
Her breathing remained rapid.
“You,” she rasped.
“Yes.”
She tried to yank her hands free.
“Let go.”
“You were fighting something that wasn’t here.”
“I don’t need you to hold me down.”
“You were hurting yourself.”
Her gaze flicked toward her leg.
The bandage had shifted.
A faint stain had bled through.
She looked away quickly.
“I don’t need protection.”
He lowered his voice.
“You were calling for someone.”
Her jaw tightened.
Silence.
He loosened his grip slightly.
She didn’t pull away.
Instead she stared up at the cave ceiling, eyes glistening in the dim light.
“I saw them,” she said finally.
“Your parents.”
She nodded once.
“They were running.”
Her throat tightened.
“They kept telling me to stay quiet.”
Stanton remained silent.
“They were bleeding,” she whispered. “And I couldn’t move.”
Her voice cracked.
“I couldn’t move.”
The words broke in the center.
Her wrists went slack in his hands.
He released them slowly.
She didn’t recoil.
She didn’t strike again.
Instead she turned her face slightly away from him.
“They died because of me.”
“No.”
She snapped her head toward him.
“Yes.”
“They threatened to kill you if they didn’t obey.”
She froze.
“How do you know that?”
He didn’t answer.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
“You know more than you say.”
Silence stretched.
Her voice softened, raw.
“I was their weakness.”
“You were their strength.”
She let out a bitter laugh.
“They’re dead.”
“And you’re not.”
Her breathing grew uneven again.
“Everyone leaves,” she whispered.
Her shoulders trembled.
“They left. The pack left. Bailey—”
Her voice fractured again.
Stanton’s hand moved slowly to her shoulder.
She didn’t stop him.
“Bailey trusted you,” he said quietly.
“He died because he trusted Morgan.”
“Yes.”
She swallowed.
“They didn’t even look for him.”
“No.”
Her eyes burned.
“They called me traitor.”
“They needed someone to blame.”
She closed her eyes tightly.
Her body shook again—not from cold.
From something breaking inside.
For days she had held herself rigid.
Defiant.
Sharp.
Controlled.
Now the fractures widened.
“I gave them everything,” she said softly.
“And they applauded.”
He did not argue.
He did not soothe.
He simply stayed.
Her breathing slowly steadied.
Her trembling eased.
She looked at him again.
And this time there was no hostility in her gaze.
Only exhaustion.
“You’re still here,” she said quietly.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
He could have said the mark.
He could have said fate.
Instead he said:
“Because I choose to be.”
Her throat tightened again.
She looked at his mouth.
Then back to his eyes.
“If I lean into this,” she whispered, “does it make me weak?”
“No.”
“It makes me dependent.”
“It makes you human.”
She exhaled slowly.
Then she did something he hadn’t expected.
She reached for him.
Not to push.
Not to strike.
To pull.
She dragged him down toward her.
Her forehead pressed to his.
Their breaths mingled.
“Can we hate each other tomorrow?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Can we pretend this didn’t happen?”
“If you need to.”
Her lips brushed his.
Light.
Tentative.
Testing.
He did not deepen it.
He let her lead.
Her fingers slid into his hair.
Her body pressed closer.
Her injured leg shifted, and she winced.
He adjusted instantly, careful not to strain it.
She noticed.
And something softened further.
The kiss deepened.
Slow.
Exploratory.
Not fueled by anger this time.
By ache.
Her mouth moved against his with growing hunger.
The mark flared beneath her skin.
Warm.
Inviting.
He felt it answer in his own wrist.
The connection tightened like a thread pulled taut.
She pulled him closer with sudden urgency.
As if she feared he might vanish.
Her hands roamed over his shoulders, his chest.
Mapping him.
Memorizing.
He responded carefully at first.
But when her breath broke into a soft gasp against his mouth—
Restraint thinned.
He kissed her harder.
Her body arched into his.
Years of discipline, repression, denial cracked under the heat.
She was not calculating.
Not guarded.
She was desperate to feel something that wasn’t loss.
He rolled slightly, shifting them so she lay beneath him but not trapped.
His hand slid along her waist, anchoring her.
Her fingers traced his jaw, then his throat.
The bruises there.
She stilled.
“Dickens did that,” she whispered.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because he knew things.”
She studied his eyes.
“You’re not telling me everything.”
“No.”
The honesty startled her.
She kissed him again before she could ask more.
This time deeper.
Warmer.
The cave seemed to close around them.
The air thick with breath and heat.
She pressed herself against him fully now.
Claiming the moment.
Not surrendering.
Choosing.
He felt the shift.
This wasn’t fear.
This wasn’t comfort.
This was decision.
The mark burned brighter.
Her pulse raced.
Her nails dug lightly into his back.
The kiss turned wild.
Raw.
Their bodies moved together in instinctive rhythm.
No tenderness now.
Only need.
Only the urgent demand to feel alive.
To feel wanted.
To feel something other than betrayal.
She gasped against his mouth.
He answered with a low sound in his chest.
The fire dimmed further.
Moonlight shifted across her bare shoulder.
She trembled again—
But not from cold.
Her hands found his face.
Held him there.
As if anchoring herself to something solid.
When the intensity crested, she buried her face against his neck.
Breathing hard.
Heart pounding.
Alive.
He held her close.
Not possessive.
Protective.
The night stretched on.
The urgency softened into something slower.
More intimate.
Her fingers traced idle patterns against his skin.
Her breathing steadied gradually.
“I don’t want this to end in the morning,” she murmured, half-asleep.
He froze.
Her words were unguarded.
Honest.
He pressed his lips to her temple.
“It doesn’t have to.”
She exhaled softly.
“Liar.”
But there was no anger in it.
Only fatigue.
Her body grew heavier against him.
Her breathing deepened.
Sleep finally claimed her.
This time without tremors.
Without nightmares.
He stayed awake.
Watching the entrance.
Listening to every shift of wind.
And thinking.
If she knew.
If she ever learned that he had once taken contracts from Damien.
If she learned he had followed Marcus that night not purely out of loyalty—
But suspicion tied to old alliances—
If she learned how close he had come to walking away from her execution—
This fragile beginning would shatter.
He brushed a strand of hair from her face.
“You deserve truth,” he whispered quietly.
But not yet.
The moon moved lower in the sky.
Dawn’s pale light began creeping into the cave.
And for a few stolen hours—
She slept in peace.
While he guarded both her body—
And the secret that could destroy them.
- Writer
