The garden becomes my sanctuary when the packhouse walls close in.

Night air cools my burning cheeks as I stumble toward the willow tree. The mountain breeze carries pine and coming rain, but it cannot touch the ache spreading through my chest.

I can do whatever I please.

Paul’s cruelty echoes through my skull like a curse I cannot escape, as if I needed reminding of my place in his carefully ordered world.

The stone bench waits beneath trailing branches, cold and solid against my trembling thighs. I sink onto it gratefully, letting the darkness swallow me whole while tears stream silently down my face.

Footsteps crunch against gravel, and I know before looking up exactly who approaches.

Zane settles beside me without invitation, close enough that our shoulders brush with familiar warmth. He doesn’t ask what happened

“He hurt you again.” This is not a question. Just quiet recognition of a pattern we both know too well.

A broken laugh tears from my throat. “He gave me permission to choose you instead, like he doesn’t care enough to fight.”

Zane goes completely still beside me. “And what do you want, Morgan?”

“Does it matter what I want?” The deflection comes automatically, a shield I’ve wielded for eleven years. “I’m just the convenient secret everyone passes around when it suits them.”

His hand finds mine in the darkness, fingers threading through with gentle insistence. “It matters to me.”

The simple kindness undoes me more than any passionate declaration could.

Here sits a man who doesn’t demand or claim or hide me in shadows, who just holds my hand while I fall apart on a cold stone bench.

The realization crystallizes so fast I cannot process any doubt: I need to know what choosing him would feel like.

I turn toward him, and whatever he sees in my expression makes his breath catch audibly.

We started this in the library days ago, that kiss that haunted my dreams and complicated everything. Now I’m ready to finish what we began.

I kiss him first this time, swallowing his surprised exhale as my mouth claims his.

The willow branches curtain us in shadow, hiding us from packhouse windows while my fingers curl into his shirt collar.

His stubble scrapes against my chin, rough and real, while his tongue slides against mine with a question I answer by climbing into his lap.

The stone bench is cold beneath my knees, but his thighs are warm where I straddle them. His hands hover uncertain at my hips until I press them firmly against my curves, giving permission he actually waits for.

The contrast to Paul’s demanding grip makes my chest ache with confusing emotion.

His mouth trails down my jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive spot below my ear, and I bite my lip to trap the moan that threatens to escape.

My thighs burn with effort as I ride him, one hand braced on his shoulder while the other covers my mouth.

He reaches between us, thumb finding the bundle of nerves that makes stars explode behind my eyes.

I clamp down on my lip so hard I taste copper, pleasure building in waves I can barely contain. His hips buck up to meet my rhythm, and the bench creaks dangerously beneath our combined movements.

We’re both desperate now, chasing release while fighting to stay silent in the shadowed garden. His breath comes in harsh pants against my breast, hot and ragged, while my thighs shake with approaching climax.

When I finally shatter, I bury my cry in his shoulder, teeth sinking into muscle to muffle the sound.

He follows seconds later, fingers spasming on my hips as he pulses inside me. His groan vibrates against my collarbone, barely suppressed, and we collapse together in a tangle of sweat-slicked limbs and racing hearts.

The night settles around us while our breathing slows, crickets resuming their song in the surrounding darkness.

I stay in his lap, unwilling to move, his softening length still inside me while reality creeps back with cruel persistence.

The first cracks of guilt spread through my chest with each slowing heartbeat.

I just took Zane on a garden bench while his brother’s invisible claim burns beneath my skin, while Paul’s scent still lingers somewhere in my memory.

What the hell have I done?