THIRTY #3
“I’ve wanted to give this to you all day.” He glances up, the smile on his face so soft, so boyish, so hopeful that it steals my breath. “But I haven’t been able to get you alone. I thought I’d have to sneak it into your boot after all.”
There’s no accusation in the words, just a gentle acknowledgment that I’ve been avoiding him. I don’t know how to explain why I hid, why I left, why part of me is still screaming to run while my heart is still intact.
Bishop misreads my silence, and the smile falls from his face. “If you’d rather go back to the party …”
A laugh bursts out of me. The oscen startles from its nest, wings rustling as it lifts into the night like it knows the moment demands privacy.
He tilts his head, mouth curving again. “I take it you’re not enjoying yourself.”
“Your family is … interesting.” It’s the nicest thing I can think to say about most of them, but I walk it back. “Not that I’ve spoken to all of them.”
His thumb rubs circles on the back of my hand, and it’s nearly impossible to think of anything but that singular touch. “Let me save you the trouble. They’re all the same. Wolves circling and waiting for the carrion.”
“They’re going to be waiting a long time, then,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, even as my body grows heavy, each moment making it harder to stand still when all I want to do is crash into him.
“I suppose you’re right.” He pulls his hand away, and I instantly miss his warmth.
But I was the one who ran. I left him there.
This moment deserves to be on his terms.
His fingers find the edge of the coat still hanging off my shoulders, and for a single, breathless second, I think he’s going to pull me in for a kiss. But instead, he withdraws a small box from the pocket and places it in my hand. It’s wrapped in white paper with a gold ribbon.
I stare at it, a tiny ripple of guilt coasting through me. “I still never got you anything.”
Bishop bites his lower lip like he’s trying to hold himself back. And loses the fight. “I think the baths were more than enough.”
I flush, looking down at the ground. So little space left between us, but we’re both still tiptoeing toward that line.
“I’m sorry,” he adds. “I shouldn’t—”
“Stop.” I cut him off. I clear my throat, trying to find the right way to make this confession. In the end, I blurt out, “I wouldn’t change it. I’m glad that it happened.”
And there it is: the truth.
Laid before us like the gift in my hand.
“Open your present,” he says, a dark current running under the words this time. “I’m not sure how much longer I can wait.”
The rasp in his voice tells me that we’re not talking about the present in my hands or our relationship, but a need that’s more immediate.
This desperate, raw connection we share that’s begging to reignite.
It’s getting harder to keep it at bay, even in the frosted garden with a hundred people inside waiting for attention.
My fingers tremble as I pluck the bow, not quite sure what to expect. Under the paper is a simple box, and when I lift the lid, I gasp.
Tears blur my vision as I stare at a piece of myself I thought was gone forever.
My mother’s locket.
It’s been reshaped by someone with expert hands. I can see the work in it. The hours. The patience. All for something that held no value to anyone but me.
My eyes fly up to find him watching me. “How? I threw it away.”
Before any of this happened. Before the Stars marked me. Before he chose to save me.
“It seemed like it mattered to you,” he says softly.
My longing eases into a hunger that doesn’t feel like it might consume me but rather carry me.
Because he is my safe space.
He always will be, and, it seems, always has been.
“Let me.” He lifts it from the box, and I turn, sucking in a jagged breath.
Bishop tucks an escaped curl back in place, his finger pausing for a moment at the nape of my neck before he drapes the locket across my throat.
The clasp clicks softly, but his hand lingers for a beat too long. “This dress …”
Two words. That’s all it takes for me to picture it on the floor beside his bed.
I swallow and turn back around, touching the metal at my throat.
Bishop takes the empty box, pocketing it like it matters, and nods. “Look inside.”
My fingers tremble as I unlatch it. He’s had that fixed, too, and nestled inside … a small likeness of Kieren.
“Oh.” It comes out on a broken breath.
“So he’s always with you,” he murmurs.
Bishop isn’t trying to replace what I lost. He’s protecting what’s left.
And I’ve been holding the line between us, trying to pretend I can control what’s happening.
Except I can’t.
“I’m sorry.” The whisper is nearly lost in the night air, but he tenses. My throat tightens as the words try to find their way out. “I was scared. Scared that the Stars marked me to be the thing that destroys you.”
I want it to sound silly. I want him to laugh, but he doesn’t.
“Never explain your heart to me.” He cups my chin, pinning his gaze to mine like he needs me to hear this as much as he needs to say it. “I see you. I’ve always seen you, Arden. I think I know your soul better than my own.”
The words strip me down until the truth of it is too exposed to deny, and a single tear leaks out of the corner of my eye.
He brushes it away with his thumb. “Happy or sad?”
“Both,” I admit. Because on the cusp of this Threshold, I don’t want to put up any more walls between us. I want to tear them down. I cover his hand with mine, grasping it so I can pull him forward.
I take a step, then another, towing him toward the house.
“I thought you didn’t want to go back to the party,” he says, but he doesn’t try to stop me.
“I don’t.”
“Then I have bad news for you, because you’re heading right for it.” I can hear the smile in his voice, and it lifts my own lips.
I wish it could always be like this. Effortless and light and … easy.
But the things worth fighting for never are.
Bishop is worth fighting for.
When we reach the kitchen door, the lights inside are dim. The party has already moved on. The guests have Turned the Threshold without us.
“I’m glad we waited for everyone else to go through first,” I murmur. Bishop eyes me warily as I swallow hard and continue. “But I’m done waiting.”
I take both his hands and back toward the door. Bishop follows, pressing me gently against it.
“Are you sure?”
“Will you just shut up and kiss me?” I say with a soft smile.
But he pauses and searches my face like he might find a clue that will help him understand me better. “I meant what I said earlier. I will wait. There’s no rush.”
But there is. Because I only have one life, and even if it’s painful, and even if I’m still a bit broken, I need to start living it.
I slide one hand from his. Reaching behind me, I turn the knob, then push the door open with my backside, my other hand still locked with his.
And we step through the door together.
Bishop’s nostrils flare as we stumble into the dark kitchen, my back colliding with the wall that leads to the narrow servant staircase. He plants his hands on either side of me, creating a cage I never want to escape from. “Is the invitation to kiss you still open?”
“I think I might die if you don’t,” I breathe.
His mouth crashes into mine.