Chapter 63
Sixty-Three
Neal
Icurled behind Sorcha in bed, arm over her belly, face nuzzled into the crook of her neck.
“Sorry about all this,” I said softly. “I know Islay was supposed to be when we finally caught a break.”
“Your aunt losing her temper hardly compares to cultists locking me in a storeroom or being accosted by highwaymen on the road at midnight,” Sorcha observed dryly.
“Still”—I kissed her temple—“I’m sorry. And I’m sorry Cavan’s so young and green. He’ll have me and Da to help of course but . . .”
“He’s already been training longer than I’ve been alive, Neal,” Sorcha said. “He’ll get the hang of it quick enough. Real skills are forged under pressure.”
I let out a long slow breath, the reality dawning on me.
Cavan was over forty—more than a decade Sorcha’s senior.
And here I was making excuses about youth and inexperience.
Meanwhile Sorcha—not even thirty—was facing down the portal threat, Iksura’s machinations, and carrying the heir to her dynasty.
“Victoria took the crown at nineteen,” Sorcha said softly. “Nine years younger than me. I think about that a lot when I feel underqualified. If she could rule all Great Britain at nearing twenty then I can handle some stupid peryton and disgruntled immortals at nearing thirty.”
“I’m continually amazed, Sorcha,” I murmured, kissing behind her ear. “I love you, darling.”
“You’re my Prince Albert,” Sorcha chuckled. “Just don’t go getting sick on me before I’m even forty. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Remember what I keep promising you?” I asked gently.
“Forever,” Sorcha replied.
“Forever,” I whispered into her hair.