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He had been a hero once. Now, he was cursed with the half-life of a shadow wraith.
‘What should I call you, Wildfire?’ The word slipped from his lips before he’d even thought it, for that was what the woman was – a living flame, both in her violent actions and the streaks of red through her burnt-umber hair.
Smiling, he offered it to her – the heart of a wraith. ‘I considered flowers, but I thought you’d like this more…’
‘Since the moment I met you, I have felt like I was soaring. With you there is no ground beneath my boots, no rail to hold on to, and for a time there, I fought it with all my might… But no more. I’ve let go. And Wildfire, it’s more than I could have ever imagined. With you, I didn’t fall in love. I rose amid it, stronger than ever before.’
Love didn’t happen once, she realised. It happened every day, in little moments, in the quiet gaps between grand words, in the lingering touches, in the hope it promised in the dark. Love was something that breathed and expanded, that was made and remade, again and again, reforged only to become stronger.
