Chapter 29
29
Keyanna
“You were right,” he rasps.
I curl my hand over his forearm, squeezing gently. “What?”
“When you said that we must have done something bad,” he clarifies. “We did. We did this to ourselves, didn’t we?”
“Lachlan, don’t—”
“We deserve it,” he grits out.
“Stop it, that’s not tr—”
“But it is, isn’t it?” He turns his face to mine, his ice-blue eyes wet, brimming even. “How far back do you think it goes? At what point did we paint ourselves the victims? Did my grandpa know? My da ? Am I just a fool they thought to protect with their lies?”
I shake my head fervently, reaching up to grasp his chin. “Look at me. I don’t believe that for a second. Look how old this journal is. Centuries , Lachlan. If your ancestor was really as bad as they say, doesn’t it seem more likely that he started spreading that narrative in his own lifetime? If Tavish really married the kelpie—this Sorcha —then surely they would have wanted to protect her. Surely what she was would have required secrecy. So it’s not as if they could refute rumors like that, right?”
“That sounds wonderful in theory,” he huffs. “But honestly, does it matter? My family did this to themselves. We’ve spent all this time searching for some kind of solution, for redemption —but we don’t even deserve it!”
“Stop it,” I tsk. “That’s not true.”
I can see anger brewing in his eyes now, even underneath the sheen of tears. “It isn’t? It sounds like I come from a long line of monsters, Key. It sounds like we were monsters long before this kelpie showed up and made it our reality. It sounds like we got what we bloody deserved.”
“Look at me.” I grab his face with both hands, forcing him to do just that. “Do you remember what you told me? Back in that room where he kept her?”
“Och, and he kept her bloody prisoner for no other reason than to siphon off her magic like some sort of leeching bastard. Because it isn’t bad enough that he—”
I squeeze his cheeks, making it harder for him to talk. “You told me that I was no more to blame for the past than you were. That I was here now. That I was trying to make it right. You said that is what matters.” I can see the way he averts his eyes, but I move my head to follow his line of sight, making sure he can’t look away from me. “That works in reverse too. Do you hear me? You are not to blame for something some evil guy with your last name did almost seven centuries ago. You didn’t do those things— he did. You are not him, do you understand?”
“Am I really so different?” His shoulders droop in defeat, his eyes wrenching shut. “Look at how I treated you when I met you. Like some sort of pariah only because of your last name. Like I was somehow better than you because of mine. Am I really so different, Keyanna?”
“You are,” I stress. “You are .” I rest my forehead against his, stroking my thumb across his cheek. “Of course you acted that way when we met. You’ve been brought up your entire life thinking that my family was the reason why you lost your father, why you might lose yourself. I don’t blame you for how you were in the beginning. I understand it. Hell, I might have done the same if our roles were reversed. I know you’re different because you went through life being told one singular thing was true, that it held weight above everything else, and yet when faced with the opportunity to trust me, you weren’t afraid to change your mind . You. Not your dad, not your dickish old ancestor. You . You made those decisions on your own. You dropped all that bullshit about a curse and blame and you trusted me based on what you knew to be true.” I press a gentle kiss to his mouth, letting it linger for a second. “You had the chance to repeat your family’s mistakes, and you went your own way. Do you understand? You are not who you are because of where you come from; you are who you are because of where you choose to go.”
A broken sound escapes his chest, and I pull him against me, wrapping my arms around his shoulders as his hands grip my waist, burying his face in my chest. I let my cheek rest against his and breathe him in, a mix of water and air and something inherently him—letting him shudder in my embrace as he no doubt tries to make peace with what I’ve said. I can’t imagine what he must be feeling; to think one way your entire life, to know something to be true spanning across generations, only to have it obliterated in one moment—it’s enough to drive someone mad if they let it. But I won’t let him fall apart. I’m ready and willing to hold him together, to make sure he doesn’t break.
“I don’t know if I deserve you,” he rasps against my sweater.
I nuzzle his hair. “You do.”
“You don’t understand,” he huffs, pulling back to look at me. “It’s not just this, Key. Not that this isn’t bloody awful, because it is, but it’s not everything . I’m starting to think you deserve so much more than me.” His face looks pained, and my heart breaks a little. “Than this . This bloody headache. Especially since—” He swallows thickly, looking lost again. “I haven’t even— I need to tell you—”
He makes a surprised sound when I slant my lips across his, a protest bubbling up for a fraction of a moment before he melts into it. I can feel the tension leave his body with every second that his mouth is under mine, and I think to myself that if he won’t listen to me telling him how I feel about him, I can damn well show him.
“Key,” he sighs dazedly. “Key, I need—”
“You need to shut up,” I murmur. “You’ve talked enough.”
He groans when I let my tongue slip past his lips, opening for me without thought. As if it’s second nature. And it feels like it is. Doesn’t he see that? Doesn’t he see that this connection between us feels like something more than just random chance?
I wind my fingers in his hair, tilting his head back to explore his mouth—keeping my kisses languid, slow, enjoying the feel and taste of him. With every passing moment I can feel him relax just a little more, and crawling into his lap is an easy decision. Molding my body against his is as easy as breathing. It feels like I belong there, really.
I feel his hands burrowing under my sweater, his wide palms sliding up my back, searing me with their heat. Our kisses are a slow back-and-forth, a lazy give-and-take—his tongue chasing after mine with every retreat just as mine follows after his.
Usually when he undresses me, it’s quick, frantic—but this time, it’s slow. He peels my top off as if unwrapping a gift, my hair catching in the neckline for a moment and then cascading down to my shoulders. He eyes my body with a reverence that makes me feel more naked than any lack of clothes could, and I’ve never been more grateful for boobs small enough to go sans bra than I was before I met Lachlan. Because I’ve noticed he seems to be obsessed with them.
His hands are so large, they cover all of me, his palms kneading the soft mounds before his fingers pluck at my nipples, teasing them into points. He catches my gaze just as he leans in to suck one into his mouth, and my mouth parts on a gasp as his hot tongue swirls around the stiffening peak, sending shivers throughout my body.
This , I think. This is what I needed.
I needed to see that he still looks at me like I’m everything he wants when he touches me. That everything he learned today hasn’t changed the intensity of what he feels for me. That he’s as deep in this thing as I am quickly becoming.
I let him tease me for a moment more, enjoying the sensation of his mouth on me, finally shoving him back so I can rob him of his own shirt. I don’t stop there, reaching for the button of his jeans and quickly working them down and off, and he lets me do it without protest, watching as I strip him bare. Watching me even more intensely as I get rid of my own clothes.
His eyes are hooded when I urge him to his back, when I crawl over him to straddle his hips, and the way he looks at me…I could get addicted to the way Lachlan looks at me. Like I’m some otherworldly creature. At any other time I might find that thought funny, since I suppose that I…well. That I am. In a way.
I undulate my hips when I have him beneath me to let his hard cock glide through my wet folds, grinding down on the head of him until he makes a sound that’s practically a growl. His hands cover my thighs, squeezing and kneading like he’s trying to hold himself back, letting me set the pace, and I grind against him a few times more before I finally decide to put us both out of our misery, reaching between us to grab his cock, notching him against my slick opening.
I hold his gaze as I start to sink down, slowly taking him in inch by inch, feeling each one as they stretch me, as they fill me—not stopping until we’re flush against each other, his cock as deep as it can be. His hands are making slow circles against my thighs now, stroking a hypnotizing pattern that I’m not even sure he’s aware of, his intense gaze roving over every inch of me reverently.
The microscopic changes in his expression when I start to move—the slight flush of his cheeks, the way his lids grow heavier, the barely there part of his mouth—each one makes me feel that much more desirable, that much bolder. I use my knees to pull off him, rising up until only the head of him rests inside me, lingering for a second or more before dropping back down all at once. His wide-eyed expression isn’t subtle then, the feral sound he makes even less so.
So I do it again. And again. And again.
I don’t know when he starts moving with me; one minute I’m setting the pace, controlling the rhythm, and the next—his hands are on my hips to hold me steady, his hips lifting from the bed at a ferocious pace so that I’m practically bouncing on his cock. I throw my head back as he hits deep with every stroke, the thick head of his cock stroking the sensitive inner wall, bumping against that place that has pressure already building low in my belly.
Usually he would be talking right now, spewing words of filth that would make me that much hotter for him—but something about his quiet makes this… more somehow. Like he doesn’t want words to take away from the crackling energy that seems to be sparking between us. One I can feel like a physical thing. Surely he can feel it too. He has to.
I don’t have to ask him to give me more; his thumb finds my clit and he starts to stroke it with just the right amount of pressure, like he knows what I need without me asking. He swipes back and forth against the sensitive hood, his slow ministrations at direct odds with the still vicious pace of his cock pounding inside me. The dueling sensations have me climbing higher and higher, reaching a peak that feels all too soon.
My thighs start to shake, and my insides begin to tremble, and I feel it; it’s right there .
And when Lachlan finally opens his mouth, his voice is so soft, so full of awe, that it makes my heart feel fit to bursting with emotion.
“Come for me,” he all but whispers. “Come for me, love.”
I do, as if my body obeys his command. I fall apart, I shatter—barely even noticing when the lightbulbs spark out, when the windows start to rattle with the force of a sudden wind that has no business here on this very sunny morning.
It’s all white noise to the way I quake through my orgasm, vaguely hearing Lachlan grunt after me, feeling his cock pulse deep inside as warmth floods me. I let my hands cover his, which still hold my hips, my mouth still open and panting toward the ceiling, my eyes still shut tight as I savor the feelings still flickering inside.
I don’t move until Lachlan physically makes me, pulling me up and off him and down into his arms as he holds me close. He cards his fingers through my wild curls as he kisses my temple, pulling me flush against his body until there isn’t a space left between us. His warmth and the calm radiating off him have fatigue settling in after such a long night and what seems like a longer morning, and without either of us seeming to be able to conjure up words for what just happened, I release a long, drawn-out yawn, which makes the sleepless night I had come crashing down on me.
“Sleep,” he murmurs, nuzzling my hair. “We’ll talk when you wake up.”
I nod against his chest, believing him. He’ll still be here when I wake up. I know this because I know how he feels about me. I felt it just now. Whether by magic or some deluded sense of intuition, I felt every bit of what Lachlan feels for me, as clear as if he’d told me himself. So I know now more than ever that this thing we’re doing…it’s real.
Because my feelings are exactly the same.
I wake up before Lachlan; I can’t be sure how much time has passed since we fell asleep, but the sun is streaming in through the window at full force now, so I would guess it’s well after noon. I pretty much stopped carrying my phone most of the time a few weeks ago; it’s still a novel thing for me, but with most of my friends back in New York having drifted when my dad got sick…there’s really no one for me to talk to that I can’t just get up and go find now.
A wild concept, really.
I dress quietly, covering Lachlan with a blanket and letting him get what is probably some much-needed sleep—moving to the kitchen table with a cup of coffee I painstakingly made in his ancient coffee maker before resuming my reading of the journal. So far, there have been only a few mentions of the bridle: when Sorcha came to the keep, when Lachlan’s ancestor struck their deal, when he betrayed her…I’m only just now reading how Tavish reclaimed it and freed her from her prison. This part hurts to read, actually, because another revelation I’ve stumbled upon has been that Lachlan’s ancestor wasn’t cursed until after Sorcha had been set free. Not as some cruel trick from a fickle creature, but as punishment for almost a year of imprisonment under some really horrid circumstances that I hope Lachlan never has to read about. He feels enough guilt as it is for this prick that shares his last name.
The remaining bit of the book grows thinner and thinner after Sorcha’s freedom and Tavish’s written joy at her having returned his love—after that, there is an account of their wedding, talk of using the bridle to ensure that the Laird never harmed them or their family again, that he even parted with some land that they could start a new life on. After that…nothing. Just a day-to-day account of their very sweet—but admittedly rather mundane—lives.
That’s it? I keep thinking. All of that, and it’s just farm life happily ever after?
For Sorcha, Tavish definitely fits the “lovestruck fool” moniker Rhona mentioned; the woman could do no wrong in his eyes. Every mention of her is painted through rose-colored glasses, which is sweet, I suppose, but he just…never mentions the bridle again. Not after briefly noting that they would do well to use its power sparingly, so as not to gain attention.
I can feel my frustration mounting higher and higher with every turned page, and by the time I’ve reached the last few, I’m feeling downright morose. Because this can’t be another dead end. It can’t . I can’t bear to face Lachlan when he wakes up and tell him I have no more answers. The bridle was here , damnit, It was right here.
The last page is an ordinary account of an ordinary day—something silly about a broken plow and Tavish feeling his age even though his Sorcha remains as lovely as ever. It would make me smile if not for the fact that it marks absolute failure at being any closer to the bridle’s location. At being any closer to saving Lachlan.
I’m just about ready to close the book and toss it to the floor, but then I notice the shadow of more writing after the last page. I lift it curiously to the back cover, my eyes rounding when I find more written there that is nothing like Tavish’s jagged handwriting, but instead a smooth, almost artful script.
To you who finds the journal of my beloved,
My Tavish has passed in the night, and with him, my heart passes too. In all my years of life, I never thought to love a mortal man. Men have been cruel to my kind, to me, and I have grown knowing not to trust them, to fear them, when necessary.
But Tavish changed my mind.
I bury this journal on our land, our home, hoping that one day when our story has been lost to the passing of time, our love will live on. That our children’s children will find his words and know where they come from. I choose to leave this life with my husband; no world without him is one I want to walk.
I leave my bridle with my beloved, for my magic is my heart, and only he can hold it.
Remember my curse, O child of MacKay. Remember it, and know that those who gave us suffering now suffer in turn. In my years with Tavish living as a mortal woman, I have come to learn what it is to forgive, but forgiveness cannot be granted from me. Such is the power of words, such is the nature of my curse. For while I can never be a daughter of MacKay, one day one such lass shall walk this world, hold my magic, and be given a chance to forgive. Only should she take it, will my curse be no more.
Remember my words:
O Thou, of face so fair an’ name so high,
With heart as black as the darkest sky
Thy cursed deeds yield cursed prize
An’ prayers nor pleas will spare thy fate
In moonlight change till the sun doth rise
Yer flesh shall bear yer soul’s foul weight
And all thy sons shall be unwrought
A boon in vain forever sought
Yer line unravels when sins be forgot
An’ each son will carry this curse of the Fae
Yer monstrous deeds be all for naught
For the end only comes with a daughter of MacKay
The book clatters to the floor, my thoughts of treating it gently forgotten in my shock. Seriously, how many times can a person’s world be turned upside down in one day? I hear a stirring behind me, but I don’t turn, too lost in my own thoughts.
Then I hear a sleepy-sounding “Key?”
“It’s me,” I say, feeling thoroughly stunned. I turn in my chair, meeting Lachlan’s confused expression. “I’m the daughter of MacKay.”
And what’s more than the mind-blowing revelation that I have a part to play in this, that everything that’s happening to me is apparently foretold —what guts me more than all of that—is the look in Lachlan’s eyes at what I’ve said. The recognition there. That’s when it hits me.
He knew all along.