Chapter Thirty-Six: The Echo of a Choice

The ruined laboratory was nothing but a skeleton of its former self—metal beams jutting out like fractured bones, rusted remnants of machines long since silenced. The roof had collapsed years ago, leaving nothing but jagged skylines and a wide, open view of the night.

Above them, the stars flickered mercilessly. Cold. Beautiful. Eternal.

Tara stood in the broken room, arms wrapped tightly around herself as the air tugged at her coat. Dust swirled with each breath she took, catching the moonlight like sparks suspended in a forgotten dream.

She turned slowly.

Faced him.

Skye stood across from her, a shadow in silver. His silhouette—half-angel, half-sin—was lit in the quiet fire of starlight. The angles of his face were sharp and impossible, ethereal in a way that didn't belong to this world. There was something older in him, something unknowable.

Something in her stirred at the sight.

Gods help her, she didn't want to look away.

But she forced herself to speak.

"I don't know what I'm doing."

Her voice was thin. Brittle.

The wind carried it away as soon as it left her.

Skye didn't speak. Didn't move. But he listened—intently, as if her uncertainty was the only thing that mattered.

Tara let the silence settle for a beat, then another. The tension coiled between them was unbearable.

"I want to run," she said, voice smaller now. "Take Landon's hand, disappear into the edges of the world. Just... forget I'm anything more than the girl he loves."

She blinked, throat tightening.

"But I can't."

Skye shifted—just slightly. A breath. A lean. Like the air between them had thickened.

"Skye," she whispered. "In this moment... all I want is for you to crash into me and destroy my life with your kiss."

Her words hit like lightning—sharp and reckless and completely, painfully true.

He flinched.

"But I won't," she said, shaking her head. "Because I'm not going to break Landon's heart."

There was a flicker in Skye's eyes—pain, understanding, maybe both. The silver of the stars reflected in the black depths of them, turning his stillness into something sacred.

"I care for him," she went on, forcing the words through the burn in her chest. "Hell, I do love him. He's safe. He's soft. He's warmth in a world that wants to devour me. Landon is home."

Her hands curled into fists.

"But when I look at you..."

She met his eyes.

"...I know."

Skye didn't speak. He didn't need to.

His presence wrapped around her like gravity—pulling, shifting, impossible to ignore.

"I want to be certain before I give myself to you," she whispered. "And right now... I'm not."

For a moment, the wind was the only thing that dared to move.

Then—Skye stepped forward.

Not fast.

Not greedy.

Just close.

His hand rose, calloused fingers brushing her cheek, leaving a line of heat in their wake. His thumb lingered just beneath her eye, the touch reverent—like he was memorizing her.

When he spoke, it was low and steady. "I understand you not wanting to hurt him."

He leaned in.

"But you're hurting yourself by not giving in to what you know you want."

And then—

He kissed her.

It wasn't wild.

It wasn't desperate.

It was soft. Deep. Measured.

A kiss that tasted like fate. Like blood and starlight and all the things they weren't ready to name.

Her heart cracked.

Because she could feel it.

What they could be.

What they already were, if she let herself believe in things like destiny.

But he pulled away too soon.

And when he did, the cold rushed in like a ghost between them.

Tara stood still. Shaking.

Skye's eyes didn't waver. "You don't have to choose now. But you will have to choose."

Then he turned.

Walked into the shadows of the broken lab, boots silent, body slipping through moonlight like mist.

Tara didn't call after him.

She couldn't.

She sank down slowly onto the edge of a rusted crate, arms wrapping around her knees. The cold kissed her cheeks. Her lips still burned where his had touched hers.

The silence closed in.

And for the first time in days, she let herself be still.

Not a weapon. Not a fugitive. Not a myth.

Just a girl.

A girl caught between two lives—one of hiding, one of becoming.

One of safety.

One of purpose.

She leaned her head back, gazing at the sky, the starlight washing over her like water. And for a brief second, she imagined what it might be like to live with neither of them.

To be alone.

To be free.

But even that came with a price.

The gods had made her of flickers and feathers and blood. Had carved her from war and prophecy. She couldn't run from what she was.

Not really.

But part of her wanted to.

Gods, how she wanted to.

Because with Landon, she could disappear.

With Skye, she would become.

And both roads led to ruin.

Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her heart.

And for the first time since waking up covered in blood in the ruins of her home, Tara wept.

Not from grief.

Not from guilt.

But from the sheer weight of choosing to live.