Your Hand And Mine Novels & Stories

I sat there alone in the black dining room with the card on the table and his words sitting in my chest like something heavy. You are more similar to him than you currently know. Similar to a thing with red eyes and fangs and claws. Similar to something four hundred years old. I looked at my hands flat on the table. Ordinary hands. Ordinary skin. Weren't they. The coffee arrived. I didn't touch it.

he replies, his hand reaching out to cover mine. I look down at our intertwined fingers, a tangible symbol of our interwoven lives. In his touch, I find a paradoxical blend of strength and fragility.

he said softly and holding his hand out for me to take . I took his hand and intertwined it with mines and I felt his hand tighten around mines. I smiled as I looked down at our joined hands.

But it was now joined by something else—a steely, collective determination. Aiden’s hand found mine under the table. His grip was firm, a silent vow.

The warmth of his touch, an unspoken testament to the enduring bond between us, created a cocoon within which the outside world momentarily faded away. His other hand, still securely cradling me, spoke of a steadfast support that extended beyond the physical realm. In that embrace, I could feel the strength of his commitment, the unwavering foundation upon which our shared journey rested. The duality of his touch, one hand cupping my face in a gesture of tenderness, the other holding me with a sturdy reassurance, encapsulated the multifaceted nature of our connection.

His other hand finally released mine, but he paused, raising my left hand between us and linking our fingers together. “Be my wife, Meadow.”

He holds out his hand. For a moment, I simply look at it. His palm is open toward me. There is no command in the gesture. No expectation that I have to take it. I place my hand in his. His fingers close around mine. He pulls me to my feet. For one brief second, I expect him to let go. He does not. I do not pull my hand away either. We stand there together at the edge of the water, our hands joined between us. The night feels different somehow.

LYRA’S POV It has been long settled since I was twelve years old–my marriage with Damon. Now I am standing under the glowing natural light, clad in this red dress that smells of sweet lavender and clutching the red roses Aunt Maya carefully picked out specially for this night. The air is nice and moist, the atmosphere is amazing and the moon is slowly showing its face. I stretch my neck towards the walkway. Damon hasn't shown up yet nor his father, Alpha Thorne. Then towards the front row of people and there my best friend in the whole wide world is standing and I see her mouth “Go girl! Luna incoming!”

"You didn't." "Then how—" "Sleep, Mia." "But—" "Sleep." His hand finds mine in the dark. Laces our fingers together. Holds on.

I hold out my hand. She looks at it and then at my face, surprised. Gently, she places her hand in mine, and I wrap my fingers around her tiny ones. Until this moment, I didn’t realize how much I wanted to hold her hand again, as if her hand was made just to fit in mine.