Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
I nside the cabin, Weston sets gloved hands on my hips and steers me toward the fireplace. After my foray into the pool, we’re both cold and damp, and while he kneels to spark a fire, I yank at the hateful wedding dress. The moment the thing dries, I’m going to burn it, just like I did the last one.
By the time Weston gets a blaze going, the gown lies in a heap on the floor. I hesitate with my chemise, my fingers tangled in the hem, but something about being back here brings Helena’s words to bear.
Bold as brass .
I’m not bold in the slightest. Even less so now than before. But I tug the chemise over my head anyway, because faking it is probably better than nothing. It’s also all I have at the moment.
That done, I stand there in my bra and underwear, waiting for Weston to turn around.
I’m just...waiting. Waiting and waiting and waiting. I think I’ve spent my whole life doing nothing else.
Goddess, please let all this waiting be at an end .
When he finishes with the fire and rises to face me, he startles. His gaze rakes over my bared body, his eyes darkening to russet gold. “Birdie? What’re you doing?”
An eternity stretches between us, so heavy with longing it threatens to drag me into the floor. I know I made him a vow, and yet I can’t help but ask this question, one last time.
I’m only saved by the fact that I’m not saying the words.
“Please,” I say.
“I don’t... I can’t...” He scrubs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath, conflict warring in his face. “I can’t take anything you’re not ready to give. Not after what you’ve just been through.”
A fresh sob wedges sideways in my chest. I want him because of what I’ve just been through, not in spite of it. Because the duke stole something from me, inside that room. Alverton robbed me of some vital piece of myself when he hauled me in front of a mirror, kicked me down into a kneel, and forced me to confront my own frailty. When he proved how brittle I am, how easy to break.
Weston can’t give those pieces of me back. I know that. But I need to believe he still wants me. That he can look at me without seeing something Alverton smashed beyond repair.
“I need,” I say.
A shiver runs through him. “What, Birdie? What do you need? Name it.”
I shift my weight. “Just...you.”
Naked yearning slices across his features. He steps closer, and I tip my head back. Fortuna, I’m so in love with this man. I’m in love with the fact that he came for me, that he didn’t give up even though I did. I love that he walled these rooms off without meaning to, that he carved a hairbrush for me and filled the coldbox with milk. I love that my first smile for him affected him so deeply. I love his stupidly beautiful face. I love every punch he’s ever thrown, and how his hair slides over his forehead when he peers down at me like this. How I only get this view of him up close.
“You’re sure?” His voice drops to little more than husk and smoke. “Absolutely, one hundred percent certain?”
“Yes. Take me. Anything you want. All of it.”
He makes a sound, broken and yet full of want. The inches between us crackle and pop, each one a drop of oil in a sizzling pan.
“I hope you realize,” he finally says, “that if you’d died, I would have, too. I wouldn’t have had a reason, anymore.”
“A reason?” I murmur. “For what?”
“Anything.”
Emotion seals my throat, rendering me wordless. I reach for his face, then halt my palm an inch from his cheek. His skin tugs at mine like a magnet, but I resist.
His choice. It has to be his choice.
Something ancient slides into his eyes. An inevitability. “Ten seconds, Birdie.”
I blink. My hand drops. “What?”
“That’s how long you have to change your mind.” His gloved fingers flex at his sides. “Because I almost lost you. And it was because of your Mark, not in spite of it. Now ten seconds is all I have left. Ten more seconds of resisting you.”
My heart lurches, straining against my ribs. “What happens after ten seconds?”
He glances behind me. “Then I lay you out on that bed, and when you get out of it again, you won’t be a Charm. So think about it. Be absolutely sure. ”
All the room’s air evaporates, leaving me gasping and dizzy. I sway on my feet. I don’t need to think about anything.
“One,” he says.
A whimper warms my throat. My whole body begins to buzz. I can’t believe he’s finally going to give me this gift. These two gifts. The only two things I’ve ever wanted, in one fell stroke.
“Two.” Weston pulls his left glove off, finger by finger, then does the same with the right. He peers down at the pair as if memorizing it, then tosses the gloves into the fire.
I follow the movement, my eyes wide. “Did you just?—”
“Three.”
When I glance back, he’s tugging his shirt free of his waistband. He works it up over his head and casts it away somewhere. I don’t hear it land, lost as I am in the play of firelight across his chest. The striated muscles of his shoulders flex and bunch.
“Four,” Weston says, growing hoarser by the moment.
My heartbeat skips. He kicks off his boots. In the fireplace, the gloves combust, throwing a flare of heat that warms my side.
“Five.” He works at his pants until the buttons pop loose, then shoves them down. He shucks his underwear, too—all of it gone, in one clean motion. He steps free and kicks them away. “Six.”
I look down. Then my eyes get stuck, because he’s already ready. He wants me—even like this, even broken—and I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything, and I can’t believe this is actually happening. Alverton and his horrid little room fade from my mind.
“Seven. ”
I meet those familiar whiskey eyes. The scene crystallizes, etching itself on my mind.
This, right here, right now, is the defining moment of my existence. This man. Each counted second outweighs an hour spent in parched misery.
And, for a moment, I feel immeasurably lucky. Blessed by the thousand tiny collisions of fate that have delivered me to this place.
“Eight.” Weston is trembling now, his wealth of power all held in check. “Nine.”
“I love you,” I say.
He falters. “Ten,” he finishes, his voice raw.
I wait. My heart is a bird, poised to fly. When long seconds pass and Weston still doesn’t move, I tilt my face up. My heartbeat catches fire. “Ruin me,” I beg. “Save me.”
His hesitation comes apart. He steps in, takes my face in his hands, and crushes his mouth to mine.
My eyes close. My entire body exhales, my soul softening at the sheer rightness of this. Weston’s tongue probes at the seam of my lips, and I open to him like a flower. Nectar-sweet relief cascades through me.
I twine my arms around his neck. Goddess, we were always meant to do this, to be this to one another. We’ve been heading toward this moment since the day we first locked eyes in my library. Which means maybe, just maybe, Fortuna Marked us to bring us together, not drive us apart.
Maybe we were always meant to save one another.
Weston’s hands dive into my hair, kneading my scalp, making the ends of my tresses tickle the small of my back. I pull him closer. His kiss is effervescent, like a mouthful of sparkling wine, sweetened with honey .
It’s our magic, maybe, equalizing. Or maybe it’s just him, this person who’s saved me a thousand times over. He tastes like ambrosia. Like hope and divinity.
Then he’s gathering me into his embrace and lifting me. I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me to the bed, where he lays me out like he promised. His weight settles atop me, more binding than an oath. Because I feel it, already. The crackling hum as our opposing forces meet.
The kiss turns fierce, Weston’s tongue exploring my mouth with mounting urgency. He pants hungry sounds against my lips as his hands trail fire down my sides. I scrabble at him, trying to get closer, and his fingers settle at my hips, digging in almost desperately.
When he tugs at my underwear, I lift my hips, pulling one leg through, then the other. He tosses the scrap of silk away. His lips trail down the side of my throat, his breathing ragged against my racing pulse. He unfastens my bra and throws that, too.
My whole body comes alive, lighting up like a firework. “Lick my Mark.”
He obeys, leaving behind a tremor that’s both hot and cold, an impossible sensation only he can elicit. I arch, needing to be against him, to be part of him. I need more. I need everything.
He pulls back just enough to gaze down into my face. “I want to be inside you when it happens,” he rasps. “I want every part of you to be mine when I take your luck.”
“Yes,” I whimper. The buzz of our pressed-together bodies builds, cresting into an ache in my teeth. One that’s only overshadowed by the ache between my legs. “Yes, yes, yes.”
“Do you need more time? More?— ”
“No. I want you now .”
Weston groans, a sound of surrender and need, and his mouth fuses with mine again. The passing seconds melt to a sticky swirl. There’s the brush of his calluses, the wet heat of his mouth, the solid weight of him between my thighs. And, deep within, the frantic vibration of my luck finding its opposite—its equal—and yielding to it.
He shifts his weight, notching his hips against mine, all barriers between us gone. As if to be sure, he reaches down and brushes a touch along my core.
An exquisite shiver rockets through me. We both break the kiss to look. His fingers come away slick and shining.
The buzz inside me pitches higher.
“Hurry,” I whisper, so overburdened with feeling I can barely hear myself think, much less speak.
He releases a shuddery breath and looks at me, his expression stark and vulnerable in the firelight. I drop a quick glance to his Mark. It’s still there, but it won’t be for much longer. The internal hum crescendos to a whine, and when I raise my eyes again, I know I’ve looked at his triquetra for the last time.
“Now,” I say.
“We’ll go slow next time.”
“Next time,” I agree. And I want to die of joy, knowing there will be a next time.
He reaches down to set himself against my entrance. He takes my face in his hands. Then he’s pushing, stretching, filling me. Saving me. Freeing me. I cry out at the sensation, my fingernails biting into his shoulders. Those whiskey eyes hold me in place, and a bolt of tenderness spears me, so pure it nearly tears a hole in my chest .
A hoarse sound wrenches from his throat. He chases it up with a curse. “Incredible. You feel incredible.”
I tilt my hips until I have all of him. “ You do. Feel... Oh... My goddess.”
He eases back, then in again, driving a ripple of bliss through me. My lashes flutter, but I force my eyes to stay open, because I want to witness this. All of it. Every last drop.
Another muffled groan rolls out of him. “Is this okay?”
“Yes.” I frame his face with my palms. “Goddess, yes. More.”
He anchors a hand to the back of my neck. He begins to move in earnest, claiming me, making me his even though I already belong to him, and I lift my hips to meet every roll of his. I exist as slices of sensation, each stacked atop the next until they threaten to topple. There’s Weston’s hair, brushing my forehead as he holds my eyes. His fingertips against my nape, a string of searing, glowing touchpoints. The feel of him inside me, reshaping me into the exact thing I’ve always hoped to be.
Luckless. His.
We ravel tight, tangling into a knot of moans and sweat-slicked skin. Sparks fly and catch inside me. I cling to him as he chases a rhythm that promises to tip me over some fast-approaching edge.
“Touch me,” I gasp out. “With your fingers, too.”
“Where?” The word is ragged.
I uncurl his hand from my neck and steer it downward between our bodies. He splays his palm across my belly, letting me set his thumb against the spot—that wonderful spot—that makes stars collide behind my eyes. I guide his finger back and forth. A cry slips from my lips as each pass inspires a burst of pleasure.
I let go, but he continues the movement. “This is how you like it?”
“Yes,” I manage. “It’s how I touch myself. At night. While I think about you.”
A light gathers in his eyes, so bright it’s volcanic. The sound that rumbles from his chest is nothing short of feral.
“What else?” he demands. “What else do you think about me doing to you?”
“This.” I widen my legs, granting him deeper access, and he takes it. He surges into me and simultaneously works me with his thumb, assaulting me with a double dose of pleasure I can barely withstand.
“Always, exactly this,” I bite out.
“I’ve dreamed of it, too,” he rasps. “But this is so much better.”
It is. It’s consuming. But I can’t tell him that, because words have abandoned me. I’m spinning into myself, falling down, down, down, into a crashing river of sensation. Weston drives me deeper with every flex of his body, every press of his thumb. My spine bows up off the mattress.
Light collects behind my eyes, a rising force. And then he’s slingshotting me out into the abyss. Ecstasy takes me, spiraling outward to the tips of my fingers and toes. I shatter beneath him, crying out his name.
A moment later, he follows. His hips stutter against mine as he finds his release. “Bria,” he gasps, the syllables reverent.
Words pour from my mouth. I can’t even say which ones. Weston’s name again, maybe, tangled with curses. A promise to love him ten more years, and the ten after that. I cling to him, riding out the waves.
He buries his face in the side of my neck and, when the intensity ebbs, slowly goes lax. Tension bleeds out of me, too, leaving me syrupy and melted. The clang of my pulse eases to a hum.
He eventually raises his head. His mouth finds mine, the kiss an outpouring of emotion—relief, awe, a devotion so deep it steals the breath from my lungs.
I kiss him back with abandon. A tear slips from the corner of my eye.
“Thank you,” I say into his mouth. Then I say it again, because those words are too small to hold the immensity of my gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“Shh,” he says, sealing my lips shut with a kiss. “I’m the one who should be saying that to you.”
He pulls back enough for me to bring him into focus. The space between his clavicles is bare. Perfect. A blank canvas.
My lungs squeeze. I didn’t feel my magic go—or maybe I did, but the moment got lost inside all the others, and that feels right, somehow, not being able to locate the second in which my wish was granted, because another, more important miracle, was taking place.
He cups my cheek, his brows knitting. “Are you all right? Did I hurt you?”
“Not at all. Just the opposite.”
He hesitates. “How do you feel?”
I give in to a contented sigh. “Perfect,” I say, because there’s no other possible answer when he’s still inside me. “Absolutely perfect. ”
That seems to comfort him, because the tension in his face eases, some.
“You?” I sound dreamy and sated.
“I feel like...I should probably let you rest. After these last few days...” His voice catches, loaded with feeling.
I reach up to caress his face. The wonder of it nearly undoes me. I’m touching him. Like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Joy rises in me, so thick and wild it nearly stops my heart. “You’ll stay with me tonight? On this side?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Of course.”
He smiles, if a little reluctantly. He eases out of me and stands.
My brow wrinkles. “Wait, where’re you going?”
“Not far. I’ll be right back.”
I blink as he moves toward the door, then give up and slump into the pillows. Exhaustion drags at me, crowding to fill the spaces his absence leaves behind. The door opens and shuts. My eyes flutter.
I even sleep for a moment, I think. Then Weston is back, setting something down on the pinewood stand beside the bed. I open my eyes.
Tenderness catches in my throat. A glass of milk.
He helps me into a sit. I drink. And drink, and Fortuna, simple milk has never nourished a person more. It slides down my still-raw throat like a balm. Even my belly relaxes, gifted, at last, with something to digest.
“Thank you,” I tell him again.
He flashes a fleeting smile. “Do you need anything else?”
“Just you.”
He studies me, and I don’t think I’m imagining the beat of hesitation, even though it’s done. It’s over. Nothing separates us any longer.
I open my mouth to ask what’s wrong, but he settles beside me, gathering me close, and the question slips out of my head. I’m so tired. I tuck my face beneath his chin, marveling that we can finally hold each other. No fabric, no barriers, no magic keeping us apart. Just Weston and me, as we always should have been.
I take a moment to savor the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against my cheek, the weight of his arm around my waist. For so long, I’ve dreamed that we would share a bed like this. That I would drift off enfolded in his warmth, lulled by the gentle rise and fall of his chest.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, his lips brushing my hair. “You’re safe.”
With those words wrapped around my heart, I let my eyes drift closed.
I do need rest, I know. Because tomorrow, or the next day, Ramses and the duke will come for me.
Only this time, they won’t find what they’re looking for.