[CONTENT TEMPLATE HERE]
Chapter 727:
“I can.” Crawford’s voice was soft, absolute, the voice of a man who had finally crossed a line and didn’t care about the consequences. “I did. And June—” he turned to her, his eyes bright with something that wasn’t quite madness, wasn’t quite love, but some terrible combination of both, “—every wish made in this well for the last hundred years has passed through that grate. Every hope, every dream, every desperate plea for something better. And now—” he gestured to the lock, a gleam of new brass against the rusted iron, “—now we’re part of that. Forever. Whether you want it or not p>
She should run. Should scream, should fight, should do something, anything, to reject this claiming, this marking, this absolute refusal to let her be separate from him.
Her ankle wouldn’t hold her. Her voice wouldn’t come. She sat on the edge of the well, trapped by injury and circumstance and the terrible, seductive certainty of a man who had decided that she was his and would spend the rest of his life proving it.
“Ms. Erickson p>
The voice came from behind them—young, male, utterly out of place in the intensity of the moment. June turned and saw a novice in linen robes, smiling, oblivious, holding a tray with two cups of something steaming.
“Brother Thomas asked me to bring you tea. He said—” the novice glanced at Crawford, at June’s ankle, at the glint of the new lock on the well grate, “—he said you might need refreshment before you descend p>
Crawford pocketed whatever key the lock possessed. Smiled—easy, charming, the mask sliding back into place as if it had never fallen.
“How thoughtful,” he said. “Please thank Brother Thomas. And tell him—” he reached for June’s hand, laced their fingers together, “—tell him we’ll be joining him for breakfast shortly. After we’ve finished our prayers p>
𝖱𝖾ad 𝗐i𝗍hо𝗎𝘵 iոte𝗿𝘳𝘶p𝘵io𝗇𝗌 𝗈𝗻
The novice nodded, set the tray on a nearby stone, and retreated, his sandals whispering against the path.
June pulled her hand free. “Don’t touch me p>
“June p>
“Don’t.” She was shaking, she realized. Trembling with rage and fear and something else—something that felt dangerously like recognition. “You locked my name to a well. Without permission. Without—” she laughed, harsh and broken, “—without even knowing if I’d say yes to coffee. That’s not love, Crawford. That’s not devotion. That’s p>
“Desperation?” he supplied. “Obsession? The final, pathetic gesture of a man who knows he’s losing and refuses to accept it?” He knelt in front of her, ignoring the damp stone, the mud, the absolute indignity of his position. “Yes. All of that. I’m desperate, June. I’ve been desperate since the moment I saw you. And I will continue to be desperate, to be obsessive, to do things that frighten you and anger you and make you hate me, because the alternative—” he stopped, swallowed, his voice cracking, “—the alternative is letting you go. And I can’t do that. I literally cannot. You are the first thing I’ve wanted in thirty years that I couldn’t buy, couldn’t negotiate, couldn’t acquire through patience or persistence or the simple application of resources. You are the only person who has ever looked at me and seen something other than what I could do for them. And I will not—” his hand found her knee, gripped hard, “—I will not give that up. Not for your comfort. Not for your boundaries. Not for any ethics or morality or simple human decency that says I should let you choose someone else p>