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“I hope that’s the truth,” she whispered, but her eyes said she wasn't certain. That she wanted to believe me but didn't quite dare.

The silence that followed was thick and brittle. She pressed her lips together, blinking hard against the wetness gathering in her eyes. Her jaw worked like she was biting back words—or perhaps sobs.

Then came a sharp, broken exhale, like air tearing free after being held too long. Her hand flew to her mouth, but the sobs came anyway—wrenching, desperate sounds that seemed torn from somewhere deep.

“I. . . I don’t know what’s happening,” she choked out between gasps. “None of this makes sense. I was at my gran’s flat. . . and then I wasn’t. And now⁠—”

She shook her head hard, as if she could knock the panic loose.

“Now everyone looks at me like I'm supposed to know something, and I don't, I swear I don't. I don’t know who these Weavers are or what I’m supposed to have done. I don't know why I'm here or how to get home or if I even can go home.” Her breathing was coming faster now, shallow and panicked. “I keep waiting to wake up. To find out this is just some fever dream or mental breakdown. But it's not, is it? This is real. I'm really here. And everyone wants me dead for something I didn't even do, and I can't. . . I can't breathe.”

“Lily.”

Her eyes were wild, drowning, pupils blown wide with panic. My hands hovered uselessly in the air before instinct overrode hesitation. I caught her hand—that cold, shaking hand—and pressed it flat against my chest, over my heart.

“Here,” I said, low and steady, though my own pulse was thundering beneath her palm. “Feel that? I'm here. You're here. You're safe. Just breathe with me. In⁠—”

I inhaled slowly, deeply, letting her feel the rise and fall of my chest beneath her fingers.

“And out.”

Her chest hitched, but she followed. Once. Twice. Her palm was warm now against my shirt, and I covered it with my own hand, holding it in place.

“That's it,” I murmured. “Just like that. In. And out. You're doing so well.”

Slowly—so slowly—the tremors eased. Her breathing evened. The wild look in her eyes faded to something more present, more aware. But she didn't pull her hand away, and neither did I.

The hush that followed was too close, too heavy. I should have stepped back. Should have released her hand and put proper distance between us. Every rule of propriety, every lesson my father had drilled into me, demanded I retreat.

I didn't.

I couldn't.

Her hand still rested against my chest, her palm a brand over my heart. I could feel my pulse jumping beneath her touch, could see her registering each beat. Too fast. Too hard. Giving away everything I was trying so desperately to hide.

Slowly—carefully, like she might startle—I reached up. My fingers lingered at her temple, then traced down to tuck the strand behind her ear. The gesture was far more intimate than tending her injuries had been, and we both knew it.

Her eyes widened slightly, lips parting on a soft exhale.

If my father commanded me to cut her down this moment, I would have disobeyed. Not from loyalty. Not from any grand principle. Simply because I couldn't bear it. Couldn't bear to add one more wound to a woman already breaking apart in my hands. Couldn't bear to be the instrument of her destruction when every fiber of my being was screaming at me to protect her instead.

The realization should have terrified me. It did terrify me.

But not enough to make me let go.

Her eyes met mine, luminous in the firelight, unguarded in a way I suspected she rarely allowed herself to be. I could see everything in that gaze—the fear, yes, but also confusion, exhaustion, and beneath it all, something that looked almost like hope. Like she wanted to believe I meant what I'd promised. That she was safe with me.

And god help me—enemy or not, Weaver or not, threat or not—I wanted her.

Not just her body, though I was keenly aware of how close we were, of the bare skin beneath my coat, of the way her breath quickened when my thumb accidentally brushed her cheekbone.

I wanted her trust. Her laughter. Her sharp mind and sharper tongue. I wanted to know what made her smile, what she dreamed about, what her life had been like in that impossible future she'd come from.

I wanted to protect her from everything.

Even—especially—from myself.

“Earlier,” I began, “you said historians dig for what others bury.”