CHAPTER THIRTY #2
She deflated, so he tightened his grip, shifting closer. “Evie, I don’t care that you didn’t know the date. You don’t need to remember it. I’ll do that for us.”
“Did you mark it down or something?”
“No.”
“Then how do you remember?”
He dismissed the question with a smile. “I’ve always had a memory for that sort of thing.”
Evylin huffed self-derisively. “I haven’t. I didn’t even remember my own birthday last month. I think I’ve forgotten yours already, and you’ve just told me.”
Deckard laughed. “Good. That means you won’t try to do anything when it comes around.”
“I want to do something, Jonn,” she insisted. “I want to give you a gift as thoughtful as the one you gave me. But I don’t have the first idea of what to get you.”
“Nothing,” he said comfortingly. “I don’t want anything.”
“If you had asked me, I would have said the same thing for my birthday. But then you gave me that,” she said, gesturing toward the vignette still awaiting its proper home on her nightstand. “Somehow, it was exactly what I didn’t know was missing from my life.”
Deckard smiled, proud of his gift. The moment he’d seen it in the small shop in Blacklion, he would have sold the very clothes off his back to have it.
Evylin tightened her grip on his hand. “I want to know you, Jonn,” she whispered, “in the same way you know me.”
Appreciative of the sentiment, Deckard dipped down to kiss her. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” he promised.
Drawing back in thought, Evylin took his offer seriously. It was charming to see her work so hard to understand him, even if he didn’t feel the necessity of it. Their souls were Bonded, and she could sense his every emotion. How much more understanding did she need?
Evylin took a deep breath, then asked her first question. “Is Jonn short for Jonnathan?”
An abrupt laugh burst out of him. “No. It’s just Jonn.”
“Just Jonn?” She smiled. “So your parents weren’t pretentious like mine, then?”
“What do you mean?”
“They didn’t give you a middle name.”
“Ah. They did, actually.”
She waited expectantly.
“It’s Marc.”
Evylin pursed her lips in consideration. “Jonn Marc Deckard,” she said and tipped her head. “That’s rather . . . boring.”
He grinned dryly. “We can’t all have names as elegant as yours.”
She let out a mocking guffaw. “You don’t know my middle name.”
“Don’t I?” he said, reaching out one finger to brush the silver pendant hanging over her open collar. Its rosette design matched her middle name. Evylin Rosette. Such a feminine name for such a fierce woman.
Evylin’s lips parted in surprise. “How do you—?”
“The same way I know your birthday,” he interrupted. “It’s on our marriage contract.”
“And you remember it?”
“I have a copy of it.”
“Oh. Right.”
Though it was standard practice for two contracts to be designed—one for the magistrate’s records and one for the groom—there was no reason Evylin would have thought about the document.
Deckard had kept it stored in his trunk for the entirety of their travels with the Third Volunteer Company, and as she’d never had a use for it, she’d not seen it after their ceremony.
“Where is it?” Evylin asked.
“In the study,” he said. “Once we arrived, I put it with other important documents, like my contract and past orders.”
“Past orders? Why keep those?”
“I like to be prepared should anyone ever question my work.”
Evylin hummed in thought, pulling away from him. He could tell she was working up another question, and he reached for his wine glass waiting on the nightstand. Evylin eyed him as he took a sip.
Suddenly, she asked another question. “Why can’t you say no to wine?”
Deckard forced himself to swallow rather than scoff. “I can say no.”
“You never do.”
“I have,” he defended. “Perhaps I’m not in the practice of rejecting it, but I enjoy it. Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
“It just doesn’t match the man I know,” she said.
“You’re so proper and straitlaced all the time.
And you’re religious—which is another topic we need to discuss.
Yet, you don’t seem to worry about overindulging when it comes to wine.
” She shook her head. “It doesn’t match your impeccable reputation. ”
A flicker of agitation twisted Deckard’s stomach. “I don’t overindulge,” he defended.
“You regularly drink two to three glasses in an evening, should they be offered. While it isn’t exactly excessive, it is beyond what polite society would deem appropriate.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Deckard set the wine aside, suddenly put off by the alcohol. “I have no explanation to offer,” he said, keeping his tone light.
“You’re always beyond reproach in every area except this.” Her eyes widened in revelation. “Is that it? You hold yourself to such a high standard, and wine is the one vice you allow yourself?”
He chuckled nervously. “What do you mean?”
“You told me once that I’m the only woman you’ve kissed.
” She raised her brow. “Thirty-two years is a long time to wait for such a simple affection. You keep your bloody orders as proof you’ve done your job, and I’ve never once seen you lose your temper.
Yet, you let yourself drink, even to mild inebriation. ”
Deckard cleared his throat, shifting away from her. He’d never considered his behavior, never thinking to question it. But her suggestion made him uneasy, like he was a fraud or a drunkard.
Evylin caught his wrist, stilling him. “Jonn, it isn’t a problem,” she said. “If anything, it makes me love you more.”
His eyes flashed to hers. “A flaw makes you love me more?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “Because, for once, I don’t feel completely inferior to you.”
“You’ve never been inferior to anyone.”
Despite his darkening mood, joy hummed into the air around Evylin. She scooted closer, resting a hand on his leg. “I have my next question,” she said.
Though hesitant to discover any more startling revelations about himself, Deckard nodded.
Evylin’s smile turned tender. “When did you first know that you loved me?”
Deckard instantly relaxed. “Two months ago,” he said. “Here.”
“What, in this room?” she asked, beaming at him.
“No, here in Loclight,” he corrected. He reached over to brush her hair behind her ear, then cupped her cheek. “At the ocean.”
Deckard could remember the exact moment as they stood beside the sea, the wind sweeping up her hair wildly. Her expression softened at the memory, and contentment pulsed between them.
“I’ve loved you longer than that,” he admitted. “But that was the first moment I knew that I loved you.”
The softest flush of pink tinged her face. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out myself,” she whispered.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“But I am,” she insisted, holding his gaze adamantly. “We could have had so much more time together if I had just been honest with myself . . . and you.”
Deckard ran his finger across her jaw, resting his forehead against hers.
“I think I knew then too,” Evylin admitted. “It’s why I unpacked the way I did. Even if you were sent to Ostwatch, I refused to leave you. I couldn’t fathom losing you for a second, even then. I just wasn’t brave enough to say it.”
For a brief moment, Deckard grieved what could have been. If Evylin had opened up and trusted him, they might have enjoyed two additional months of love like this. Her fears had cost them eighty days of happiness.
“We have a hundred years ahead of us,” Deckard reminded them both. “What are mere days?”
He tipped her chin up and kissed her. The heat of magic thrummed gently in his chest. He left it dormant but leaned in to deepen the kiss. He slipped Evylin’s coat from her shoulders, preparing to draw her close, but she set a hand on his chest to stop him.
“I have another question,” she whispered against his lips.
“It can wait,” he murmured, wrapping his arm around her.
She pulled back, her brows lifting dramatically. “You won’t distract me from my mission,” she said. “I have too much to learn.”
Deckard tightened his jaw, pulling in a halting breath. “It’s getting late, Evie.”
“Then we’d better talk quickly,” she teased.
Though he didn’t care to answer more questions, he would accept their closeness in exchange. He pulled her over his lap, her legs straddling him, and tightened his grip around her waist. “Ask away,” he said.
Evylin settled her arms on his shoulders, smiling with happiness. “What do you want to do with your life?” she asked.
Deckard tensed. “I’ve already given you that answer.”
“When?”
“In Mouroc,” he said, the words coming out more sharply than he intended. “I told you: Whatever you want, I’ll give it to you.”
“That’s not an answer,” Evylin argued.
“It’s the only one I have.”
Her jaw set with determination, and he could feel her agitation as if it were within himself. “What about what you want, Jonn?”
Suddenly, holding her felt wrong. But as she didn’t seem inclined to move, he simply loosened his grip. “I don’t want anything.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she said tersely. “Everyone wants something, Jonn. Even martyrs like you.”
Deckard had the urge to shove her off his lap. But he held back his baser instincts and took a deep breath instead.
“What do you want?” Evylin pressed.
“You,” he said automatically.
“You have me,” she replied. “What else?”
“Nothing.”
She ignored his protest. “Do you want a family?”
“Evie—”
“Do you want children?” she demanded.
Deckard couldn’t take their closeness anymore. He pushed her aside as gently as he could, his agitation brewing, and rose from the bed.
“Jonn.”
“I don’t know,” he said sharply. “Yes, I suppose I do, but—”
“Then we’ll have children.”
“No!” He whirled, glaring at her. “That’s not how we make decisions, Evylin. I want children, yes, but if you don’t—”
“I do,” she interrupted.
He stared at her, disbelieving. He didn’t know why, but he’d never expected her to want to be a mother. She was independent, adventurous, and sometimes selfish. She didn’t trust people easily, and she feared losing those she loved. He doubted motherhood would appeal to someone like her.