The circles he rubs into the back of my hand sink deep, low in my stomach.
Not butterflies.
A tremor. A fault line.
My body remembers something my mind still can't touch, like bone recognizing pressure before pain arrives.
Will watches me with an intensity that makes me feel like I'm coming apart right in front of him, layer by layer. There's no smirk now. No teasing. Just raw, desperate focus—like if he looks away for even a second, I might vanish.
"We asked for the Desmós ceremony," he says quietly. "The binding of souls. It doesn't bind love. It binds inevitability."
My heart stutters, misfires.
"The Desmós?" I repeat. The word feels too old for my mouth. Too heavy. Like it was never meant to be spoken by something human.
He nods once. "We wanted eternity. And Eiria Aionios—the Weaver of Eternal Bonds—agreed to perform it in the Aetherion veil."
Right.
Eiria.
Aetherion.
Casual.
"But my father…" His jaw tightens. His voice roughens around the name. "Ares was furious. He didn't just forbid it. He tried to criminalize it."
The Fates' scissors flash through my mind—cold, precise. My fingers twitch in his grasp like they remember the weight of threads I've never held.
"'A Fate,'" he says bitterly. "'One day she'll cut your thread without flinching.'"
His fingers brush my cheek, reverent. Careful. Like he's touching something that once shattered him.
"You terrified him," he says. "Because you made me want something other than war."
The words hit harder than any myth.
I forget how to breathe.
"But we didn't listen," he continues. "We bound ourselves anyway. I thought it was the beginning of our forever."
He swallows. Hard.
"It lasted less than a day."
The hollow seems to tighten around us. My ribs ache like my lungs are pressing against a cage that's suddenly too small.
"When I couldn't find you after the ceremony, I knew something was wrong," he says. "We were supposed to have our first dance."
A faint, broken smile ghosts his mouth.
"I searched for you with the fury of a thousand storms," he says—not poetically. Not proudly. Just truth. "I leveled cities. Burned kingdoms. Peace was beginning to root in some lands, and I ripped it out by the core."
His breath catches.
"Without you, I was wrath," he says. "A monster."
Lightning glints behind his eyes, gone as quickly as it appears.
"I cursed Olympus. I cursed every altar that wouldn't answer. And still—nothing. Not your name. Not your scent. It was like the universe swallowed you whole."
My skin hums. A low electrical thrum under bone, like something listening from inside me.
"After fifty years," he says, voice rough, "I found you."
My lungs seize.
"You were imprisoned in a cave in the Alps," he says. "Still wearing your wedding dress. Chains biting into your wrists. So thin I could count every rib."
The air feels thinner. Harder to pull in.
"I thought I'd found a ghost," he whispers. "Then you looked up. And I knew you were still in there."
The way he says my name hurts in places I don't have language for.
"I broke the cuffs with my bare hands," he continues. "Dropped to my knees in the filth and begged the gods to turn back time."
His thumb presses harder into the back of my hand, like he needs the anchor.
"You forgave me," he says. "Before I even apologized."
My vision blurs.
"I carried you out like you were made of glass," he says. "I took you to the cottage I built for us. Drew you a bath. Held you while you slept."
His voice softens, reverent.
"For the first time in fifty years, I believed you were safe."
Something in my chest fractures—not loudly, but completely.
"Zeus convened a council," he says. "Your mother. My father. Judgment."
His mouth twists.
"They decided we couldn't be together."
I make a broken sound I don't recognize as mine.
"It was my mistake," he says, fury flaring. "Leaving you alone for that meeting. The Keres took you while I was gone."
The word lands like a blade sliding between ribs.
He pulls me into him suddenly, crushing the space between us. His arms lock tight, like letting go might undo him.
"I tried to protect you," he says into my hair. "Ares swore a blood oath—if I ever contacted you again, he'd destroy you. Body and soul."
He pulls back just enough to cup my face, thumbs trembling.
"He knew the truth," Will says. "If he killed you, he'd take part of me too."
It didn't stop him.
"So I stayed away," he says. "Tried to honor it. I failed. Every lifetime. You were hidden. Erased. Stolen."
A tear slips free. He catches it without comment.
"I never thought I'd find you this time," he says. "And then there you were. In a parking lot. Talking about eating a horse."
A laugh punches out of me, half hysterical, half broken.
"That's how it ends?" I croak.
"The Fates have a sense of humor," he says quietly. "I've always hated it."
Logic screams at me to run. To deny. To rationalize.
But my soul is humming.
He presses his lips to my forehead—not a kiss.
A vow.
"I've failed you more times than I can count," he whispers. "But I won't fail again."
My voice comes out small. "Will…"
His eyes close like my saying his name hurts.
"Do you feel it?" he asks softly. "The pull. The echo."
My hand lifts before I tell it to. I press my palm to his chest, over his heart.
His heartbeat stutters. Then steadies.
The hum surges.
"I feel it," I whisper. "Gods help me. I feel it."
Something dormant inside me shifts—like a door finally realizing it has hinges.
"We were always meant to find each other again," he murmurs.
Outside, the wind brushes the branches once.
Twice.
Then—
It stops.
Not fading.
Not settling.
Stopping.
The woods don't go quiet.
They go alert.
Every sound cuts off at once—no insects, no leaves, no distant road-hum. The silence snaps tight, pulled too fast, like something drew a line through the world.
Will stiffens.
His hand tightens around mine—not protective.
Warning.
"Aetheria," he breathes. "Do not move."
The flashlight brightens—the light stretching unnaturally, then bending sideways as if caught in a current I can't feel. Shadows peel off the bark and slide—not falling, not cast—moving.
A pressure blooms behind my eyes.
Not pain.
Attention.
Something presses against the hollow, not entering—assessing. The way a blade tests bone before cutting.
The bark beneath my back warms.
Burns.
A line etches itself under my palm—heat without flame—curling into a shape I somehow recognize even as panic claws up my throat.
A mark.
Will goes utterly still.
"No," he whispers—not to me.
To it.
The pressure tightens once more.
Satisfied.
Then it withdraws—not retreating, not fleeing.
Claiming later.
Sound rushes back all at once. Wind crashes through the canopy. The flashlight snaps back to normal. The mark beneath my hand cools, leaving my skin aching and unbroken.
My knees buckle.
Will catches me instantly.
"They know," he says, voice hollow. "You weren't supposed to be touched yet."
My heart hammers so hard it hurts.
"Touched by what?" I whisper.
He doesn't answer.
Because somewhere beyond the trees—far, far away—something answers back.
And this time, it isn't hunting.
It's confirming.