Book 19: Chosen

Oakley

Ian scoops me into his arms and carries me over the threshold of the long-missing front door. What’s left of the cottage is painted in shadow, and rain patters on the top of my head and my shoulders. I barely notice the clouds now blocking whatever moonlight there is to be had, but it doesn’t matter. 

None of this matters. 

He lays me down in the only sheltered corner of the cottage. A bed of moss and forest debris creates a nest of softness I melt into the moment my back touches the ground. I dig my fingers in and flex them over his shoulders, his bare chest, and down, mapping every sharp angle, rigid muscle, and scar, but he doesn’t lower to meet me. 

Rainwater drips from his hair and down his nose, falling onto my parted lips. His eyes, still trapped between his true self and his ever-shift