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Olivia bursts out laughing. “Give me a break. You really don’t have to make up all this stuff to get a piece of ass. You’re a gorgeous guy. Coffee and a chat would get you nailed by pretty much any woman you want. I don’t know why you went to this much effort for me…”
“I have fabricated naught. I want you. You need me. I will protect you.”
“From what?”
“If I mistook you for Morgana, others may,” I hedge. “Ruthless killers will hunt you if they believe you are the evil sorceress.”
“I think the chance that anyone else will mistake me for an Arthurian witch is pretty slim.” She rolls her eyes. “Do you have a phone so I can call Bram?”
“You must stay here.”
“For…? You know what? It doesn’t matter. Good luck with all your curse-breaking and whatever. I’m leaving, and you’re not stopping me. I need to open A Touch of Magic in a few hours—” She winces. “Um, I meant what I said earlier about your talent. You’re going to consign your carvings with me, right?”
“If you will rest here another few days, aye.”
“That’s coercion.”
“When it comes to caring for you, I possess no sense of guilt.”
I intend to keep Olivia safe…and lay her back so I can fuck her again, while reveling in the fact we can satisfy each other.
Does being able to spill my seed—twice now—mean Morgana’s terrible curse ended? Am I mortal again?
I leap from the bed, flip on the bedside light, toss on my pants, then rush to the simple maple chest I carved decades ago. Beside it, I wrap my fingers around a worn handle that conforms to my palm and lift the familiar weight.
“What are you doing?” she demands, holding my sheet against her naked body with one hand while trying to dress with the other.
I tear off the protective leather casing with a cry of triumph.
Let us see if my immortal days are over.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Olivia
Marrok grips a long, wickedly sharp dagger that gleams in the artificial light. It’s huge and imposing—like the man who wields it.
“What are you doing?”
He prowls back in my direction, looking like the Chippendale’s version of a horror-film slasher.
Now that he’s had his fun, is he trying to kill me? I’m more shocked than I should be. Even though I have hazy memories of him caring for me while I was out of it, he’s pretty much a stranger. I was stupid to let our connection give me an inflated sense of safety.
I scramble to the opposite side of the mattress, taking the sheet with me. “If I had known that telling you I want to leave would make you homicidal, I would have kept my mouth shut.”
“God’s blood, woman, I mean you no harm.” He holds up the blade. “This is for me.”
Then Marrok draws the dagger across his forearm, slicing deep. Blood gushes from the open wound in a sickening torrent. My knees nearly buckle. “Stop! Oh, my god—”
He drops the blade. Blood rolls down his arm and pools in the crook of his elbow, drizzling to the hardwood floor in a metallic-scented rush. Since he’s seen me naked, I abandon the sheet and rush to the bathroom, trying not to panic.
Towels. I need to find them. I have to stop Marrok’s bleeding, then somehow get him to a hospital. Bram? I don’t know how I’ll call him when my phone is dead, but Marrok needs stitches ASAP.
I grab a stack of fluffy towels and dash back to the bedroom. I stop in my tracks when I catch sight of Marrok examining his arm.
The awful gash is gone. Completely. As if it never was. Only the blood beading on his skin and dripping to the floor remains.
I stagger back. The towels drop from my numb fingers. Is this for real?
