Chapter6
Celestia's POV
My throat tightened. The rational part of my brain was already building walls.
"Celestia?" His voice pulled me back. "Are you still there?"
"I'm here," I said, but my voice sounded distant.
"I want to see you again. Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. Boston Public Garden. Let me prove I'm not just another person who's going to disappear on you."
My first instinct was immediate: run.
"I don't think that's a good idea," I heard myself say, hating how my voice shook. "I'm busy tomorrow."
"Busy," he repeated quietly. "Or scared?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yeah, Tia. It matters." His voice was gentle but firm. "Because if you're busy, I'll wait. But if you're scared, then we should talk about that."
"You don't know me well enough to psychoanalyze me."
"Maybe not. But I know what it looks like when someone's been hurt so badly they'd rather be alone than risk it happening again." He paused. "I see it in the mirror every morning."
Something in my chest cracked.
"What if you're wrong about me?" I asked quietly. "What if I'm not worth the effort?"
"Then I'll have wasted one evening." His voice carried a hint of a smile. "But I don't think I'm wrong."
"Or maybe you understand what it's like to need someone and have no one show up." His voice went softer. "I'm showing up, Tia. I'm asking you to let me."
I was quiet for a long moment. He'll hurt you. Damien promised forever. Maxwell promised a family.
But then I remembered the way Lysander had trembled in my arms.
"I'm not good at this," I admitted finally. "Trusting people. The last time I did that, it ended badly."
"How badly?"
I laughed, bitter. "The kind of badly that makes you want to burn the whole world down just to feel warm again."
"Then we'll go slow. One evening. If you want to leave, you leave. No questions, no pressure. I just want a chance to prove that not everyone is going to hurt you."
"You can't promise that."
"You're right. I can't promise I won't accidentally hurt you." His voice was honest. "But I can promise I'll try not to. And I can promise that I'll show up when I say I will."
Something about the rawness in his voice made my defenses waver.
"What if I say yes and then regret it?"
"Then you'll have learned something." He paused. "But Tia? I think you're tired of being alone. I think you want someone to prove that it's possible to be safe with another person. And I think you're terrified that I might actually do it."
My breath caught because he was right.
"One evening," I heard myself say. "Seven o'clock. But Lysander, if you don't show up, I won't give you another chance."
"I understand." The relief in his voice was palpable. "I'll be there, Tia. I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep."
"I'm not." His voice was steady. "I'll be there."
After I hung up, I stood there staring at my phone, hands shaking. What the hell was I doing?
But my traitorous heart was already counting down the hours.
The next evening, I stood by the frozen lagoon as November dusk painted the sky amber and violet. I'd changed outfits three times before settling on a beige trench coat over a simple black dress.
When Lysander appeared at exactly seven, my breath caught.
He wore a charcoal peacoat, and when his eyes found mine, the intensity in his gaze made my stomach flip. I could see the same careful wariness I felt.
Light caught on his wrist as he raised his hand. Silver flash. Patek Philippe.
"Friend gave it to me," he said. "Knockoff. Looks real though, right?"
But I had five darknet identities and fifty million in hidden assets, so who was I to judge?
"Very convincing," I said softly. He extended his hand, tentative.
I took it.
His palm was warm against mine. His thumb brushed across my knuckles, gentle, giving me an out.
I didn't take it.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi," I replied. "You came."
"I said I would." His eyes searched mine. "Did you think I wouldn't?"
"I thought there was a fifty-fifty chance."
His hand tightened on mine. "I'm here, Tia. And I'm not going anywhere unless you tell me to."
For the first time in two lifetimes, I started to believe him.
We walked through the garden as lights came on one by one. The cold air made me shiver, and he slipped his arm around my waist, pulling me closer.
He led me to the footbridge over the lagoon.
"I used to come here when things got bad," he said quietly. "Something about the way the lights reflect makes everything feel less sharp."
"I know that feeling," I said, leaning into him.
He turned to look at me, and his hand came up to brush hair from my face. "Is that what this is for you? A place the bad things can't reach?"
"I'm not sure yet," I admitted. "But I want it to be."
His breath hitched. "Me too." His forehead dropped to rest against mine.
We stayed like that, breathing the same air.
"Can I ask you something?"
My stomach tightened, but I nodded.
"That night we met. You said you understood trauma. What did you mean?"
"I lost my parents when I was young," I said carefully. "Fire. After that, things were bad."
His hand tightened on my face. "I'm sorry." He pulled back to look into my eyes. "Were you hurt?"
"Yes," I whispered. "But I survived."
"You did more than survive," he said fiercely. "You became extraordinary."
He kissed my forehead, and I felt something crack open inside me.
"What about you?" I asked.
He was quiet. "I was ten. Parents died in a fire too. Very sudden." His voice went rough. "Sometimes I still wake up smelling smoke."
Without thinking, I wrapped my arms around his waist. His arms came around me immediately.
"Does it get better?" he asked. "The nightmares?"
"Some days," I said honestly. "And some days you just survive until tomorrow."
"To surviving," he whispered.
When we left the garden, he took me to a North End restaurant. An elderly woman pulled him into a hug and launched into rapid Italian, and he answered in the same fluid dialect.
Maria seated us in a corner booth, and Lysander slid in beside me.
"Are you going to call me on it?" he asked quietly.
I thought about my own secrets. "No. Because if I did, you'd ask about mine."
Relief flooded his face. "So we just don't ask?"
"We don't ask," I said.
Maria brought wine, and by the third glass, I was leaning fully into him.
When we left, he pulled me close as we walked along the Charles River.
"I'm trying to figure out who you really are," I said, wine making me bold.
"You've known this whole time?" His hands settled on my waist.
"Since I saw the first edition Heidegger." I looked up at him. "So why didn't I call you out? Because I've got secrets too."
"And if someday I want to tell you the truth?"
I rose on my toes. "Then I'll listen. But right now, I just need to know one thing. Is this real? What you feel for me?"
His hands slid up to frame my face, and I felt him shaking. "More real than anything in my life, Tia. This is the only true thing I have left."
"Then show me," I whispered.
The kiss started tentative, then ignited. Wine-sweet and desperate, his hands sliding into my hair.
When we broke apart, he pressed his forehead to mine. "Tia, you're drunk. I can't take advantage."
"I'm not that drunk." I tried to pull him back and stumbled. He caught me, and I laughed. "Okay, maybe a little drunk."
"Come on. Let's get you somewhere warm."
"Your place," I heard myself say.
In the cab, I fell asleep against his shoulder. I woke when he carried me from the car.
In his apartment, he set me on the bed and knelt to unlace my boots. When he tried to stand, I caught his hand.
"Stay," I whispered.
He lay down beside me, and I immediately rolled into him.
"Ly?" I said sleepily.
"Yeah?"
"In your presence, I don't have to pretend."
His arms tightened around me. "Me neither. For the first time in eighteen years."
I was drifting off when his phone suddenly rang. He tensed beneath me.
"Fuck," he breathed.
I lifted my head. "Ly? What's wrong?"
He was staring at the phone screen, color draining from his face. His breathing got faster, and his hands started to shake.
"Lysander?" I sat up, suddenly sober. "Hey, look at me."
But he wasn't looking at me. He was staring at the phone, chest heaving. The phone stopped ringing.
Then it started again.
Lysander made a sound between a whimper and a gasp, and his whole body began to tremble.
"No," he whispered, his voice suddenly different, younger, terrified. "No, no, no, please..."
I grabbed his face. "Lysander, it's okay. You're safe."
But when his eyes finally focused on mine, they were wrong. Unfocused. Lost.
And then he spoke, and his voice was that of a frightened child.
"I want my mom," he whispered, tears streaming down his face. "Please, I want my mom. Where's my mom?"
My blood turned to ice.
