Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
W hen I wake, I reach for Weston.
My arm encounters a gulf of cold, empty sheets. I sit up, my heartbeat knotted with panic. Where is he? He wouldn’t have left, would he? What if Alverton came and took him? What if?—
A glance across the room soothes the discordant chaos within me. Weston stands before the pump-handled sink, his hands braced on the counter, the musculature of his back standing at attention. He’s stark naked. My eyes slide down over his backside, lingering on the divots at the base of his spine. “What’re you doing?”
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even move. It’s like he hasn’t heard me at all.
A frown drags at my mouth. “Weston?”
Nothing.
I slide from bed and pad toward him, the chilled floorboards sucking warmth from my soles. When I get close, I see he’s staring in the mirror, his eyes fixed low on the glass. As if? —
Understanding flashes. He’s looking at his Mark. Or lack thereof.
I lay a hand on his arm. He jumps at the touch, his gaze swinging to mine.
His eyes are bright and feverish. “My triquetra. It’s...”
I wait, but he doesn’t continue. “Gone,” I offer gently. “You’re rid of it.”
His attention falls to my throat. He flinches at what he finds there. “Yours, too. I... Oh, goddess, Birdie, what did I do to you?”
I reach up to brush a few golden strands back. His eyes are wild. Flame-bitten and frantic.
“You gave me everything I’ve ever wanted,” I say. “You freed me.”
He swallows, the sound of it harsh in the cold room.
I hesitate. I should’ve known he might react like this. That he might regret, once daylight had driven away yesterday’s mountain of horrors. I should’ve realized he’d struggle with losing the curse he believed he deserved, even if it’s a blessing for both of us.
“It’s okay.” I pull at him, and he doesn’t resist. He curls into me, his face landing against my chest, his back rising and falling with jerky movements. And... Fortuna, is he crying?
My heart splinters apart. I fist my hands in his hair, clutching him close.
“I’m sorry,” he says against my skin. “I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not.” I imbue the words with as much force as they can hold. “Not for a second. Everything that happened last night was my choice. I don’t regret any of it. I have nothing but gratitude for what you did.”
Air staggers into his chest, and suddenly he’s kissing me, the press of his mouth frenzied against mine. His cheeks are wet, his lips salted.
I can’t tell whether he means to take from me or give, but whatever he needs, I’ll provide it. He can have anything. I offer it freely.
“Tell me you still love me,” he chokes out. “Even after what I’ve done.”
“I love you. More than I did yesterday, not less.”
He makes a sound that might be acceptance or denial, I can’t tell, but whatever it is, it’s laced in pain, and when he catches me up and hoists me onto the counter, I splay my legs apart. I don’t hesitate. Not for a second.
Within moments, he’s inside me, and while I know that someday we’ll go slow, it isn’t today, because he needs something from me and I need to give it to him and I’ll do anything, anything to save him from this misplaced guilt.
He takes me hard. Unrelenting. And yet it lasts, like he’s asking me a question and listening to my answer, over and over again, never quite believing the truth of what my body is confessing. I hold him the whole time. My fists ravel in his hair, keeping his forehead anchored to mine.
I offer him everything. I keep my eyes open and my heart bared. I don’t look away and neither does he, even when he surges deep and stays there, his every tendon straining as he clutches me close. I take in the short, choppy jumps of his breathing, the glistening dilation of his pupils as he comes apart.
He does it all in silence, as if he doesn’t dare impose on the quiet. As if he doesn’t think he deserves to. Part of me shears away, sliced through by the knowledge that, even curseless, he still believes himself unworthy .
His head finally falls against my shoulder, then lolls. His muscles unstitch themselves, one by one.
I wrap my arms tighter and hook my ankles behind his thighs. I prop my chin on his shoulder and close my eyes and just hold him.
Right up until the moment someone flings open the door. The wood cracks against the frame. A blur of color and finery storms into the room.
I shriek. Weston’s whole body jerks to attention. He instinctively moves to cover me, his hands coming up to shield my breasts. When he turns his head, a snarl has already screwed itself into place.
I cower, unable to face the duke again so soon, only...
Horror-struck green eyes regard me from over Weston’s shoulder. Eyes that look an awful lot like mine.
“Brendan?” I yelp. Dismay opens a pit inside me. “What’re you doing here?”
My brother takes in our state of affairs and flings up a hand, shielding his eyes. He angles his whole body away. “Fortuna,” he sputters. “What’re you doing? You’re... You’re... Curses, can you put some clothes on? What the hell did I just walk in on?”
“Something private,” Weston growls. “So I suggest you walk right back out.”
Brendan makes a swatting motion in our direction and ducks away, practically diving through the door in his haste to retreat. I start to unwind myself from Weston, but he doesn’t let me. He picks me up from the counter and carries me to the bed as if it costs him nothing.
He sets me down and digs in my trunk for a dress, which he hands over. While I tug the thing on, he searches for our fallen clothes and steps into his breeches. That done, he makes for the door.
“Stay here,” he says.
I don’t, of course. The second I’m decent, I rush out after him. Brendan waits in the middle of the clearing, red-cheeked and fuming. Weston barrels toward him, and...
Oh.
I know what’s going to happen well before it does, because I’ve seen that same stride in the ring. Seen him prowl like that, every step bursting with intent.
Sure enough, Weston reaches my brother, cocks back a fist, and drives it straight into Brendan’s face.
My brother careens backward, landing on his back in the grass. Weston spits and makes a noise that’s part animal, then stands there, his back heaving, his fists clenched at his sides.
“You traitor.” It’s a deadly shout that’s also somehow half-whisper. “You miserable asshole. You selfish fuck.”
“Me?” Brendan’s indignant holler startles a raven from a nearby tree. “ Me , selfish? When you’re the one who just had your hands on my sister? How does that make sense? And what the hell did you just hit me for?”
“For promising Bria to a man who tortured her,” Weston spits. “For the fact that she almost died in Alverton’s custody. And for what? So you could buy yourself another fucking waistcoat?”
Brendan sits up, blinking hard. He drags the back of a hand across his mouth, seemingly surprised when it comes away coated in red. “I... What?”
“He almost killed her!” Weston shouts with unallayed fury. “He locked her in a room without a drop of water! For days! ”
My brother’s eyes pop wide. His gaze seeks mine as if magnetized. And when his stare locks into place, I see it.
The moment he realizes my throat is bare.
All the color drains from his cheeks. His attention jumps to Weston, plainly searching for confirmation. Which he finds, of course.
He chokes on his own air supply. “What the... What’d you do? What the hell did you do to Bria?”
Exactly what I asked him to , I want to shout, only I can’t get the words out, because Weston rears back from Brendan’s vitriol as if stabbed.
It’s the worst thing my brother could have said. The one thing guaranteed to wound.
I force my frozen tongue to cooperate. “Brendan, no. It’s not like that. I asked him to?—”
My words die as movement at the treeline catches my eye. A man on horseback stands at the edge of the clearing, his features obscured by the brim of his hat. But even at this distance, a chill of recognition skitters down my spine. My bare toes curl into the grass.
Not possible.
Yet even as denial surges up my throat, the man coaxes his mount forward. Light hits his face. Air abandons my lungs as readily as if someone punched me in the stomach.
“Dad?” I say.