The war stole everything.

The stolen kisses in the dark, the whispered promises between gunpowder and blood—gone.

Now, there’s only this: your dagger against his throat, his breath warm on your trembling fingers. The man who once held you like something precious now stares up at you with eyes like a challenge.

No struggle. No defiance.

Instead, his calloused hand closes over yours, dragging the blade lower—down to his heart—as if he’s memorizing the weight of your touch one last time.

"Go ahead." His voice is rough, almost tender. "It’s yours, anyway."

The knife trembles. So do you.