Chapter Twenty-Six #3
“We’ve got the Collector now,” she reminded him. “It’s never been safer.”
“I might not be safe.”
“Of course you are, Aidan.”
“I’m serious.”
“You usually are,” she replied lightly. “It’s the museum curator in you.”
“You’re not a wolf.”
She wasn’t sure why that offended her, but it did. “I would make a sensational wolf.”
“I agree.”
“Oh. Well, good.” She was only partly mollified. A toad croaked from the river in sympathy. “And I’m the Red Cloak.”
Or she had been. What an odd but pleasant thought.
The Red Cloak would not be needed anymore.
But he was still correct, much as she hated to admit it.
She wasn’t a wolf. Her hand stilled where she had been dragging her fingertips over his thick muscles without realizing it.
“I suppose we can call off our betrothal now.” She swallowed. “If that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?”
“It’s what we agreed to.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“Why do I have to say it first?” she grumbled.
“Because you’re braver than I am.” His arms were tight around her.
And because he always wanted her to have the choice. Never to be trapped the way he had been. Oh, but this kind of bravery was difficult. She would rather face a hundred unicorns. Or Granny in a snit.
Mind, it would be so much worse if he returned to London, to his museum and his self-flagellation, without her.
What if he only returned once a year for some festival or another and they greeted each other politely in the middle of the street like acquaintances?
She would have to shove him headfirst into the sea.
Or what if he never returned at all?
“I don’t want you to go,” she said softly.
His heart picked up under her cheek. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know you love your work in London, that you love the museum. And you might not love me,” she hastened to add, though it was like biting into unripe apples. “But I love you, Aidan. All of you.”
There was a beat of silence in which she shriveled into ashes and blew away.
And then he eased back just enough to look at her, slowly, almost ominously. “Not love you?” he demanded, outraged.
She blinked up at him—his eyes gold, a growl in his throat—and felt much better.
“Sorcha, I’ve loved you since the first moment we met.” He still sounded insulted that it was even a question.
“That can’t be true.”
“It’s entirely true. A wolf knows.”
“You couldn’t wait to get away from me,” she reminded him. “I was there. I remember.”
“Do you know why I was able to fight off the Nightmare?” he asked.
“Because your wolf was stronger,” she said with smug certainty.
He shook his head with a crooked half-smile. “Not exactly.” He rubbed circles on her back, trailing up to her nape. “It’s because it didn’t show me anything I had not already seen or imagined countless times before. I had nightmares of being turned for months, years. Sometimes nightly.”
She hugged him closer. “That’s what I said,” she insisted. “The wolf was stronger. And so was Aidan.”
“But they were nothing compared to the nightmares I had when I first saw you.”
She scoffed. “That’s not very romantic, Lord Coventry.”
He didn’t smile this time. “I’ve never known fear like the fear that I might be a danger to you, Sorcha.”
She kissed his chest, over his heart. “I’m not afraid of your wolf.” She would say it as many times as she needed to.
“You don’t know the things he did, even before the moon madness took him. The memories he passed on to me when he bit me.”
“He did those things, not you.”
“But there’s no guarantee it won’t take me as well one day. The moon madness.”
“If it hasn’t taken you by now, I highly doubt it ever will. And there’s no guarantee a kelpie won’t bite me either. Or a vampire. In fact, those are far more likely. It doesn’t mean you stop living your life, Aidan. He doesn’t get to win. He’s taken too much from you already.”
“Do you know why I’ve been at the museum so long?”
“You like dusty old things?”
“Well, yes. That, and the magical bindings at the Museum of Magic are the best in all of Britain. Europe, probably.”
She stared at him. “You’ve been jailing yourself.”
“Aye.”
“I don’t like that.” It was too easy to picture him pacing the dark, empty halls, hating himself.
“I stole an iron collar from the Order once,” he confessed.
She sucked in a breath. Never mind the punishments involved if he’d been caught—there was nothing more painful than having your magic bound in that way. And only a Keeper from the Order could release you. The turmoil he must have felt… “What happened?”
“The magic of the Order doesn’t work on the Lycan.” She sighed in relief. He noticed, and his expression softened. “Ever the defender,” he said.
“Ever the curator, complicating everything,” she returned with a kiss to his hard jaw. “I choose you, Aidan. The question is, do you choose me?”
He gripped her chin. “Always, Sorcha. I will always choose you.”
Relief made her lightheaded. “You do make a girl work for it, don’t you?”
“I still might not ever be able to share a bed with you.”
“I think we’ve proven that’s not the case.”
He shot her a quelling glance, fond, exasperated, serious—so Aidan it nearly made her want to cry. “I meant to sleep,” he added. “I still get nightmares.”
She shrugged. “I steal the blankets.”
“I may never fully trust myself.”
“I don’t care for peas.”
The laugh burst out of him in surprise. “Pardon?”
“I thought we were sharing things about ourselves again?”
He shook his head. “There’s no one like you, songbird.”
She smirked. She couldn’t help it. “What does Freya have to say about your transformation?”
He frowned. “Nothing.”
She poked him. “Ha! She agrees with me, doesn’t she? Admit it, wolf. You’re outnumbered.”
He stalked her backwards, caging her against the nearest tree. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’ll be the death of me,” he said. He dragged his fingers through her hair, tightening them into a fist. “And I’ll die smiling.”