Chapter 24 Loving is a Liability
Orion’s POV
Morning comes quietly, the way it always does when sleep never truly arrives. I wake before the sun, before the world remembers to move, with that familiar weight already settled in my chest. The room is dim, the curtains barely letting in the grey light of early dawn, and for a moment I lie still, listening to the slow rhythm of breathing around me.
Zilla is curled into the blankets, her small body relaxed in a way only children manage when they feel safe. One arm is thrown over her stuffed bunny, her face soft and peaceful, untouched by the things adults carry. Beside her, Coralyn sleeps on her side, hair loose across the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek like she has nowhere else to be.
I watch them longer than I should.
There is no calm in me, only a tight pull that refuses to loosen. Last night replays itself whether I invite it or not, the closeness, the quiet heat between us, the way her mouth fit against mine like it had always known how. It felt real in a way I have trained myself to avoid, and that is exactly why it unsettles me now.
I ease out of bed carefully, moving slow so I do not wake either of them, and stand by the window with my arms crossed, staring out at the still resort grounds. Everything looks peaceful from a distance. It always does. That illusion has ruined more lives than chaos ever did.
I have avoided commitment my entire life, and the reasons for it sit heavy in my bones. In my family, relationships were currency. Love was leverage, affection was control, and vulnerability was a weakness that invited punishment. I learned early that caring too deeply gave people access to you, and access was never free. It always came with cost.
That lesson stuck.
I told myself I preferred distance. I told myself I worked better alone. What I never admitted was that I feared how easily the wrong people could weaponize my attachments. And now Coralyn stands right in the middle of that truth, whether she realizes it or not.
She already has power over me.
She does not ask for it. She does not push or demand or shape herself to fit what she thinks I want. She is honest in a way that feels rare and dangerous, soft without being fragile, steady without being rigid. She sees things, people, moments, and she treats them like they matter.
That goodness scares me.
Because I know exactly what my world does to people like her.
The thought presses in slowly, sharp and unrelenting. If she knew everything, if she saw the full weight of my past instead of the parts I let show, would she still look at me the same way? Would her warmth cool into caution, her trust into disappointment? I have lived with many losses, but the idea of losing her settles deeper, heavier, more permanent than anything else I have known.
My past rises up without permission, as it often does in quiet moments. Boardrooms where voices stayed calm while lives unraveled behind closed doors. Deals signed with clean hands and dirty consequences. Choices framed as necessary, justified as survival, while people paid the price for decisions that benefited me. I was never innocent. I simply learned how to live with the weight and keep moving forward.
I wonder how Coralyn would see me if she knew all of that. I wonder whether love can survive the knowledge of who someone has been, not just who they are trying to become.
My thoughts turn sharper when Kade enters them.
My brother does not love. He claims. He tests limits and waits patiently for fractures to appear. If he senses Coralyn matters to me, he will circle slowly, looking for weaknesses, provoking reactions, pushing until something gives. He enjoys proving that everything breaks eventually, especially people who believe they are strong.
Kade’s cruelty has always been quiet, deliberate and deeply personal. He does not rush. He studies.
And then there is my mother.
Callista is worse because she never raises her voice. If she learns about Coralyn, there will be no direct attack, no obvious threat. There will be invitations dressed as concern, evaluations disguised as interest, pressure framed as opportunity. She will corner Coralyn without ever appearing unkind, and she will let others carry out what she decides is necessary.
That is how she has always operated.
The truth settles in with clarity that leaves no room for denial. Starting something real with Coralyn places a target on her back. That is why I hesitated. That is why restraint felt safer than honesty. But after last night, pretending this is casual feels like a lie I can no longer justify.
I hear movement behind me.
Soft footsteps. Fabric shifting.
I turn to see Coralyn sitting up, blinking sleep from her eyes, her gaze finding mine almost immediately. There is a brief flicker of awareness between us, a memory passing silently that needs no explanation.
“Morning,” she says softly.
“Morning,” I answered, my voice rougher than I intended
.
She watches me for a moment, then pulls the blanket closer around herself, as if unsure where to place her words. I recognize that hesitation. It mirrors my own.
“You look like you didn’t sleep,” she says.
“I didn’t,” I admit.
The honesty feels necessary.
She nods, then asks quietly, “Is everything okay?”
I consider deflecting. I always do. Instead, I move closer and sit at the edge of the bed, keeping enough space for her to breathe, for both of us to think clearly.
“I have been holding back,” I say. “Not because I don’t feel anything, but because I feel too much.”
Her expression shifts, attentive and open, the way it always does when she listens.
“The world I come from doesn’t let good things stay untouched,” I continue. “People close to me become leveraged. That has always been the rule.”
She studies my face, understanding forming slowly instead of judgment.
“And you’re afraid that would happen to me,” she says.
“Yes.”
The word leaves my mouth heavier than expected.
She is quiet for a long moment, then reaches out, her fingers brushing mine in a simple, grounding gesture.
“I can decide what risks I take,” she says gently.
I look at her then, really look at her, and feel the sharp edge of wanting to protect someone who refuses to be managed.
“I know,” I replied. “And that’s what makes this harder.”
Before either of us can say more, Zilla stirs, rubbing her eyes as she sits up. She looks between us, then scoots closer without hesitation, climbing into my lap like this is where she belongs.
“Hi,” she murmurs.
I smile despite everything and wrap my arms around her automatically. Coralyn watches us, something tender and complicated crossing her face.
“Are you staying?” Zilla asks her sleepily.
Coralyn smiles, soft and careful. “I’m here right now.”
That answer is enough for Zilla, who settles against my chest with a content sigh.
I hold both of them in my gaze and make a quiet decision, one that feels irreversible. If I let this continue, I will do it deliberately. No half-truths forever. No letting Coralyn walk blind into the shadows of my past.
I do not know when I will tell her everything.
Only that I will.
And if my family tries to destroy the first good thing I have allowed myself in years, they will find that I am willing to burn every bridge necessary to keep her safe.