It started as just a skim of her fingertips, testing the waters.

  She glanced back at Sullivan, waiting for a response, but he simply held his ground and watched. One hand at her mouth, as if to protect herself—just in case—she put her other hand in his, tentatively opening it, spreading her fingers. The first press against his palm sent a shiver up her arm.

  It was so warm and firm.

  Her heart stopped for a moment as she flinched. She glanced back at her husband.

  Still, he did not move.

  She stared.

  One heartbeat.

  Then two.

  She continued her touch, almost curious as to what else he would allow her to do. It left her chest feeling light, unrestrained.

  A fingertip traced the edges of his white silk glove. She had never seen his actual hands before. She carefully repositioned him to take a better look, wondering what the gloves could possibly be hiding.

  One delicate finger slid into an open fold, pushing the fabric away.

  Sullivan’s body clenched, every muscle tightening. He braced for pain, but the phantom fire receded, then quelled as her skin met his.

  His hands felt so rough and calloused. They were painfully dry and cracked. Aleiya could feel the heat from them as she cupped his hand with both of hers. She pushed the fabric half way up the palm to look.

  It was blackened—like charcoal—burnt through, like the remnants of a fire long extinguished. As if his hands weren’t made of flesh, but of charred ruin—smoldering remnants with veins of red and purple pulsing like embers beneath brittle ash.

  ‘Positively mutilated.’

  She took the rest of his glove off, letting it slide to the floor, landing safely atop her lily.

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  He did not stop her, but his breath hitched, sharp and barely audible. He did nothing—yet it was the loudest thing he had ever said. The tight sigh that escaped the ancient vampire seized her.

  She looked back to him. A deer caught in headlights.

  She waited.

  One heartbeat.

  Then resumed her exploration when nothing happened.

  She continued to tenderly squeeze and lightly caress the ruined flesh. Each of her fingers ran over the cracks and edges of his ruin. Disgust should have come first—but it didn’t. Instead, she was entranced, utterly fascinated.

  ‘His hands must hurt, being like this.’

  ‘Sullivan must always be in pain.’

  She took another step closer, brought her husband’s hand to her face, and leaned into the touch. Dry and cracked flesh met unblemished porcelain skin.

  She sighed.

  It was nice.

  Aleiya pressed further, the very sensation so new and foreign, she wanted to make sure she remembered exactly how his hand molded to her face. How the wisps of alcohol stung her nose, but held the faint scent of old leather and ink beneath it.

  She savored the warmth, yes, absolutely. But more than that—the quiet, fragile power of choosing how she was to be touched.

  For the first time, she was not taken. Not positioned. Not placed.

  She reached. And he let her.

  She placed. And he let her.

  She touched. And he let her.

  The thought cracked what was once the smooth and beautiful surface of the mask, fractures creeping like veins through clay. The plastic mold tilted askew as a torrent of tears escaped the prison of her eyes.

  They fell.

  And they fell.

  Hot and wet on both porcelain and charcoal. They were silent but deafening.

  She nuzzled deeper into that hand, pressing into the warmth like a lifeline. Her grip tightened, frantic, as if the moment itself could slip through her fingers. Like it would disappear—taken, stolen.

  She didn’t want to let this go. She didn’t want to lose what she had just found. It was the most beautiful thing she had ever held in her own two hands. And she wanted it.

  Desperately.

  Endlessly.

  Forever.

  “Aleiya.”

  That soft and rich timbre rumbled in her ears like the deep echo of a drum.

  “Can I touch you?” he asked again.

  She stilled… She realized she never gave him an answer.

  And in turn, he never actually touched her.

  No punishments.

  No consequences.

  Even without an answer, nothing—absolutely nothing—not a single thing had happened to her. Just like he promised.

  Aleiya sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, nodding. As he drew her closer, she could not help but cover her face. This feeling was overwhelming. Her heart was laid bare—it was almost too much to take.

  Her body molded into the shape of Sullivan’s welcome embrace. He held her close and cradled her silver head of hair to his chest, drying her flood of tears.

  Desperate, she clutched at the fabric of his shirt, holding on as if it were the only thing keeping her tethered to this moment—this feeling. She grabbed, she clawed—like scaling a mountain just to wrap her arms around him.

  ‘See me. Know me.’

  She chanted it over and over again. Between each blurry blink, the strings never faded from view. They only curled and bloomed as if watered by her tears. Entwined with a single knit.

  This moment now a purl in the greater tapestry.