𝘚𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘢 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘴 -and lost just as many reasons to keep going.
Natalie Parker, once hidden in the shadows of history, is a mutant unlike any other. Bound to the earth by blood and power, her touch coaxes life from st...
as a major thank you for allreads, this is the last chapter of apocalypse and I hoped you guys liked the new and improved version of this book as I feel like there is more to Natalie's story than previously written. thank you all so much. ♡
- bonus note. this has been entirely re-written since i now want to focus on erik & natalie's slow burn - instead of peter (mainly cause peter is barely in the next movie, and i always preferred erik for natalie) ♡
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bonus chapter • 23 ↠ ↠ ↠
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"Whatever's behind this door, it doesn't change what's in front of it—you. And I've never seen anything braver."
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Natalie woke up to an empty bed.
Again.
The sheets next to her were cold. The sun filtered in through the gauzy curtains, painting golden shapes over the tangled covers. Her heart ached the moment her eyes opened—a reminder that Alex wasn't there. That he'd never be there again. Every morning she hoped the pain would be less. Every morning, it wasn't.
She sat up slowly, groaning as her muscles fought against her. She stood, numb, and walked to the bathroom. Her reflection stared back: red-rimmed eyes, deep circles, hair unwashed and coiled into a loose braid that had all but fallen apart in her sleep. She blinked at herself.
"Alex's favourite...," she murmured, fingers grazing the faded cotton shirt. She pulled them off and stepped into the shower.
Warm water trickled down her spine, soaking into her roots. She leaned her forehead against the tile, eyes squeezed shut.
"It's been 41 years, Alex... How do you think they'll react?"
He'd promised he'd go with her, when the world finally stopped burning. But he never got the chance.
Her hands curled into fists under the stream.
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By the time she emerged from the shower, hair damp and brushed into a simple plait, she'd tucked the worst of her grief behind the smile she always practiced in the mirror.
There was a knock at the door.
"Natalie?"
She paused. That voice. Not Peter. Not Scott.
"Erik?"
She pulled on a soft, flowing blouse and stepped into the hall, opening the door to find him leaning against the frame in a charcoal sweater and dark jeans. His eyes found hers instantly. The quiet warmth in them, the soft ache of understanding—she hadn't seen him look at her like that since Berlin.
