[ The chapel on the estate has been tainted, tarnished, forever marred by the memory of having to lay Embry to rest, to mourn him without even so much as a coffin to look at. Greer hasn't set foot in it since the day she tucked herself into a pew, dressed in all black, and cried into Ash's chest until her eyes were sore from the effort. Even now, it feels... strange and surreal to be celebrating, to participate in this so-called faire when she's still nursing the bruises around her own heart, the parts of her that carry the lingering ache of Embry's rejection.
She still means every word she'd written to him, every sentiment she'd texted, her jaw set with determination. It doesn't matter how much time he needs to understand it himself; she's willing to wait until he sees how right it is, for them all to be together. His death had punctured her so keenly, in part because when Ash had touched her the day of his memorial, there'd been a distinct lack in it, an absence she couldn't successfully ignore. Only days later, wallowing in her own grief, had she realized: she hadn't felt as whole as she had that night in the piano bar with both of their hands on her.
The crumbling structure, out here in the forest, must have been a chapel once; now, it sits abandoned, lost to the elements, but still partially standing, shafts of sunlight spilling in through the cover of greenery overhead. She's standing in a golden patch of warmth when she hears the sound of leaves crunching beneath someone's steps, and turns — Embry looks like something out of a dream, coming towards her, walking down the rows of moss-covered benches, and she almost can't find her breath at the sight of him.
Even now, after all that's happened between them, her heart lifts with hope. ]
Took you long enough. [ But the words have no bite, no malice; her eyes are already welling, although her chin doesn't so much as threaten to wobble. ]
I hated you for it a little, I think. I wanted to make you pay, over and over, for every kiss, every touch, every — [ Every time you were inside me, she almost says, and then bites it back, because she's certain he knows what she's referencing without her needing to finish that thought aloud. ] I still do, sometimes.
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She still means every word she'd written to him, every sentiment she'd texted, her jaw set with determination. It doesn't matter how much time he needs to understand it himself; she's willing to wait until he sees how right it is, for them all to be together. His death had punctured her so keenly, in part because when Ash had touched her the day of his memorial, there'd been a distinct lack in it, an absence she couldn't successfully ignore. Only days later, wallowing in her own grief, had she realized: she hadn't felt as whole as she had that night in the piano bar with both of their hands on her.
The crumbling structure, out here in the forest, must have been a chapel once; now, it sits abandoned, lost to the elements, but still partially standing, shafts of sunlight spilling in through the cover of greenery overhead. She's standing in a golden patch of warmth when she hears the sound of leaves crunching beneath someone's steps, and turns — Embry looks like something out of a dream, coming towards her, walking down the rows of moss-covered benches, and she almost can't find her breath at the sight of him.
Even now, after all that's happened between them, her heart lifts with hope. ]
Took you long enough. [ But the words have no bite, no malice; her eyes are already welling, although her chin doesn't so much as threaten to wobble. ]
I hated you for it a little, I think. I wanted to make you pay, over and over, for every kiss, every touch, every — [ Every time you were inside me, she almost says, and then bites it back, because she's certain he knows what she's referencing without her needing to finish that thought aloud. ] I still do, sometimes.