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70

Asher

If I could live the rest of my life with my hands never leaving Camila’s body, I would. The space between us—tiny as it is—is pure agony. It leaves me feeling cold, as if I’m being covered in black frost. But I have to endure the distance for a few seconds longer, just enough time that I can slip the prayer beads onto her wrist again.

Camila lifts her arm and looks at the wooden beads with an inscrutable expression in her eyes. Seeing them on her wrist again slows my heartbeat somewhat. It looks right. It feels right. And I can’t help feeling the same thought that rushed through my head during our wedding:

Somewhere along the way, Camila became mine.

Not just as something to possess, but as someone to treasure.

To shield.

To protect.

To love.

The thought goads me to action. I close the tiny gap between us, positioning myself over her on the bed. As soon as I do, I embrace her again, tightening my grip around her back and waist.

“God, I missed you,” I whisper into her hair.

Her t
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