RELEASE

RELEASE
AYLA

We don’t say much on the way back.

Garrick and Leona walk ahead, deep in quiet conversation, while Thane stays beside me, our hands still clasped. There’s something about the way his fingers curl around mine that feels different tonight, not possessive or protective, but… grounding. Like he needs it as much as I do.

By the time we get to the house, the sky’s dipped into deep navy. The others peel off quickly Leona mutters something about her grandmother’s old notes, and Garrick disappears with a grumble about needing to cross-check maps. I barely register it. My focus stays on the weight of Thane’s hand in mine, how he hasn’t let go.

The moment the door closes behind us, something shifts.

The house is quiet, too quiet, but it’s not the kind that feels uncomfortable. It’s the kind that settles over your shoulders like a heavy blanket after a long, exhausting day. Outside, the wind taps lightly at the windows, and somewhere far off, a wolf howls. But in here, it's just the two of us.

Thane doesn’t let go of my hand, not right away. We just stand there in the entryway, our fingers laced together, his thumb absently brushing the back of my hand. It’s such a small thing, but it makes my chest ache.

He’s looking at me like he wants to say something. Or maybe he already is. His eyes are darker than usual, but not with anger. With heat. With something deeper.

I don’t know how to explain what I feel in this moment. There’s fear, sure. There always is, these days. But beneath that, something warmer is stirring, something that’s been building since the first time he stood between me and a threat I couldn’t see. Since he looked at me like I wasn’t just some broken thing.

“I don’t want to think tonight,” I say quietly, the words leaving me before I can second guess them. My voice is barely louder than a breath. “Just… feel.”

There’s a pause. He doesn’t move or say anything for a beat too long, and I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, if I’ve misunderstood what this tension between us really means. But then he steps closer.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs, and I swear I feel those two words settle straight into my bones.

He cups the side of my face, brushing his thumb along my cheek as if I might break from too much pressure. And then he leans in, slow and sure, and kisses me.

It starts as a whisper of a kiss. Gentle. Careful. Just the press of his lips against mine, like he’s asking for permission. I answer with a kiss of my own, firmer this time, and that’s all it takes—his hand slides around the back of my neck, drawing me in deeper.

When he kisses me again, it’s different. Still soft, still reverent, but with an edge of hunger now. Like he’s been holding back for far too long and can’t anymore. And the truth is—I can’t either.

We move together in that unspoken way people do when there’s something bigger at work than words. I don’t even remember how we end up in the bedroom. I only remember the way his fingers trail up under my shirt, the way he pauses every few seconds to look at me like I might disappear. Like he wants to memorize every reaction.

He peels my shirt over my head, slow and careful, then just stands there for a second, eyes locked on mine. He doesn’t stare at my body like he’s taking inventory—, he looks at me like I’m something sacred. Like this moment matters more than either of us wants to admit.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice rough.

I nod, and the sound I make is something between a laugh and a sob. “Yeah. Just... nervous.”

“Me too,” he says.

And there it is. No bravado. No pretending he’s done this a million times. Just honesty. Just Thane.

I reach for his shirt next, pulling it up over his head, and he lets me. My fingers skim over the scars on his chest—old and new—and I feel his breath catch. I trace one with my fingertip, and he closes his eyes like my touch is something he’s been craving without realizing it.

When he kisses me again, it’s slower. He backs us toward the bed, mouth warm and sure against mine. My knees hit the edge of the mattress, and we both fall onto it in a mess of limbs and laughter and nerves.

“Sorry,” I mumble as my elbow catches him in the ribs.

He laughs softly. “Worth it.”

His mouth finds the hollow of my throat, then my shoulder, then lower. Each kiss is slow and deliberate, like he’s exploring new territory. His hands slide down my sides, fingers grazing my hips, my thighs, my stomach. And the whole time, he keeps whispering things I can barely register—soft nothings, my name, the word beautiful more than once.

There’s no rush in the way we move. No frantic tugging or desperation. Just this steady build of heat and tension and trust. My body rises to meet his, every nerve ending buzzing with anticipation.

When it finally happens—when we come together—it's not perfect. It's real. I gasp, partly from the stretch, partly from how vulnerable I feel, and his hands instantly find mine, lacing our fingers together above my head.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, breathless. “I’ll stop.”

I shake my head, eyes wide and wet. “Don’t stop.”

So he doesn’t.

He moves slowly at first, giving me time to adjust, to breathe, to feel everything. And gods, do I feel everything. His hands. His mouth. The warmth of his breath against my neck. The way he murmurs my name like a promise.

And I give back everything I have. Every touch, every kiss, every sound that escapes me—I give it all to him.

Our rhythm builds, and it’s like we’re unraveling together. Nothing else exists—not the past, not Nadira, not the weight of everything we’re running from. Just us. Just this.

When the climax comes, it rolls through me like a wave I didn’t see coming. I cling to him, breath hitching, and feel him follow soon after, a groan breaking free from his chest as he buries his face against my neck.

And then, silence again. But this time, it’s different. Full.

He doesn’t move for a long time. Just lies there, still inside me, one hand stroking my hair, the other cradling my cheek.

Eventually, he shifts just enough to roll us onto our sides. I curl into his chest, and he pulls the blanket over us, still breathing hard.

Neither of us speaks right away. We don’t have to.

But after a while, I whisper, “I didn’t think I’d ever feel this again.”

He kisses the top of my head. “You never lost it, Ayla. It was always in you. Just… buried.”

My throat tightens. I close my eyes, trying to keep the tears from falling.

“I don’t feel broken when I’m with you,” I say again, voice raw.

His fingers trace the curve of my back, slow and steady. “That’s because you never were. And if anyone ever made you believe otherwise, I’ll spend the rest of my life proving them wrong.”

I smile against his chest. It’s the first time I’ve smiled like that in weeks.

And as I drift off to sleep, tangled in his arms, I realize something I haven’t dared to admit until now
.

I think I’m falling in love with him.

And it’s terrifying.

And wonderful.

And real.