Page 81 of Tears for a Broken Sky
“You shouldn’t have had to say all that,” he said. “Not tohim.”
I looked down at my hands. “I had to say it to someone eventually. Why not him?” I lay back on the bed. “I’m not madabout it. At least not anymore. What can be done now? Nothing.”
He finally calmed enough to sit beside me. “It doesn’t make this right.”
“No. I mean… look, I’m still here. Still standing. Kind of. I’m coping—better than I was, anyway.”
It sounded braver than it felt, but I wanted him to believe it.
“And I get where he’s coming from, I do. But …I’m never going to be what they want me to be. Not Syrena, not anyone. And I own that. I am me. Whoever that is.”
“I know who you are,” he said finally.
“Do you? And who am I?” I smiled at him—wry, uncertain, a little tired.
Slade didn’t smile back.
“You’re a girl made of fire and shadow,” he said, voice low and steady. “A girl who walked through hell and survived it.”
Each word landed like it mattered. Like he meant every one.
“You’re someone I’m honoured to stand beside. No matter where we are.”
He paused—long enough for the silence between us to hum with meaning.
“I would stand with you forever.”
I looked away, my throat tight.
“Don’t say things like that,” I whispered. “You’ll make me believe them.”
“I hope you do,” he said. “Because they’re true.”
I reached up, fingertips brushing his jaw. The stubble beneath was rough, warm. Solid.
He leaned into my touch with quiet hunger, like he hadn’t realized how badly he needed it until now.
Then he moved—just a little—closer, his forehead dipping to rest against mine. The gesture was tender. Intimate.
I breathed him in. He smelled like ash and steel and something earthy—something that settled low in my stomach.
My hand moved, slow and deliberate. Down his cheek. Along the curve of his neck. Across the edge of his collarbone where skin met fabric. His breath hitched. Just a little.
He turned toward my touch like he didn’t want to miss a second of it.
One breath.
Two.
The space between us thrummed with the possibility of more.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes had changed.
Softer. Darker. Hungry, but holding back.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask.
He just leaned in—and kissed me.
