I turn for the hallway.
“Kris.”
He grabs my wrist.
I whirl back on him. “Don’t—”
My shout cuts off. I don’t know whether I want to screamDon’t touch meorDon’t call me that.The way he says my name, the way he’s always said it, he might as well be sayingsweetheartorbabyorlove,and Ican’thear him say my name, not now.
“You didn’t tell me.” I’ve been operating on numbness up until this point, my voice finally breaks, my eyes heat.
He listened to me divulge all that shit about my mom, about realizing how abusive she is. I let him read her texts and that letter and he had the chance totell methat he was using me.
But hedidn’t.
That’s what’s gutting me right now. I could’ve dealt with him and Malachy working together—probably. Eventually.
But he didn’t tell me.
“I should have,” Loch says, sounding rushed, anxious. “I dinna know how. Malachy told me to go after you, but that’s never been what it was. Not from the start, I swear.”
I want to believe him. Everything he’s said to me. Everything I’ve said to him. Iwantto believe him, but all I can see is the lie hanging over our every interaction, a twisting toxic cloud braided through with the doubt I spent so long keeping at bay. The worry that I shouldn’t give up my responsibilities and drop the ball on what Christmas and my brother needed so I could make selfish choices.
I made that selfish choice.
I took that selfish risk.
And he was lying the whole time. He had chances to tell me the truth, and hedidn’t.
Loch’s holding my arm. He reaches up with his other hand and touches my neck, testing, then pulling me into him, and I concede, only with a lurching glare.
“Let me go.” I don’t wait—I yank back, and he lets me.
Siobhán has her hands to her mouth, Finn scowls, the air is thick with ache and betrayal and I point at Siobhán.
“Do not let him follow me,” I tell her.
“Kris.” Loch tries to reach for me again, but I sidestep him and race for the hall to Siobhán’s shriek of “What did you do,Lochlann?”
I don’t expect she’ll be able to stop him, not for long, so I tear through the castle, shove into my room, and lock the door. God, it’s a mess, and it throttles me now, every memory in every corner—the bed, the shower, his hands on my body, his lips here, and there, and the words he said, their lingering pressure now a growing stone.
On autopilot, I stuff my belongings into my suitcase, eyes blurring. My chest can’t take the weight and it splinters, actual cracks snaking along my ribs.
I went into thisknowingit was him. But I got distracted by his cheekbones and his honor and his wild, artistic soul. And even when he told me he was stealing from us, it was okay—I rationalized it away because he had a noble purpose.
But stealing our magic to give to his asshole of an uncle? Not clarifying where that magic was going, that Malachy tolerated my presence here because he wanted Loch to manipulate me?
Letting Malachy blindside me like that?
The doorknob twists. The lock holds.
“Kris,” he begs. “Open the door.”
I don’t say anything. I get my suitcase shut and I conjure mistletoe.
“Please.” He knocks. “Please don’t—”
I use the door to the ensuite. I shove the mistletoe in and magic gathers around me and I don’t think, I don’t think, Igo.
