“Focus.”
“Iamfocused. You, on the other hand, look like you’re about to combust.”
“Iamcombusting!” His voice echoed through the tombstones.
She arched a brow. “Bit dramatic for a detective inspector.”
“I kissed my fiancée in a cemetery at six a.m. while technically in the process of arresting her,” he hissed. “That isnotin the bloody Metropolitan Police manual.”
“Should be.” She gave a soft hum.
He turned away before he said something truly idiotic, like,Marry me now; I’ll carry your blasted camera to hell and back.Instead, he ran a hand through his already-ruined hair, exhaled like it physically hurt, and bent to retrieve her blasted bonnet where it had fallen at some point during her trespassing. When he turned back, she was looking at him with something softer in her gaze. Something dangerous.
“I made you a promise,” he said finally, voice low. “To protect you. Even from yourself. Especially from yourself.”
“And I,” she said, stepping closer, “never asked you to.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
They stared at each other, fog curling between them like ghosts listening in. Then, quietly—tooquietly—he said, “You’re not going to stop, are you?”
“No.”
“Bloody hell.” He reached for her elbow. Not unkindly, but firmly. Possessively. The gesture of a man clinging to professionalism by a single unraveling thread. “We’re leaving,” he said.
She didn’t move.
He stepped closer, voice a near growl now. “Now, Miss Blackwood.”
That earned him a glare.
“Fiancée or not,” he muttered, “I swear I will toss you over my shoulder and carry you out of here if you test me one more time.”
She tilted her head, lips curving. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
*
Above them, unseen in the misted veil between realms, two women looked down…
“Did he justthreaten to carry her off like a sack of potatoes?” Celeste hissed, perched on the edge of a tomb.
Alice adjusted her ghostly shawl, delight written all over her translucent face. “I do hope so. He’s got good arms for it.”
“Your granddaughter is about to get ravished against a tombstone.”
Alice squinted. “Well, not anymore.”
Below, Alaric was officially out of patience. He stalked toward Thea with all the rigid fury of a man who had tried to be reasonable and was now done playing nice.
“Alaric,” Thea warned, backing up one step. “Alaric—don’t you dare—!”
Too late.
He scooped her up like she weighed nothing at all—one shoulder jammed into his chest, her boots flailing, skirts flouncing with offended drama—and hefted her over his shoulder in a single flex of repressed desire and primal frustration.
