“I’m sorry for not telling you before.” My words come out quiet, a whisper that’s almost carried away on the winter wind.
Maeve exhales slowly, her breath steaming around her mouth. “That’s why you pulled away?”
I give a single nod. “I wanted to protect you.”
“You should have told me.” There’s no anger in her voice, though if there were, I know I’d be deserving of it.
I incline my head. “Yes. There’s much I’d do differently if I could.”
She studies me for a long moment, something thoughtful and steady settling into her violet gaze. I can almost see the shift happening, see how she turns the truth over in her mind, weighing it, considering it: a longer life, a different life from one she ever expected. She lets out a breath. Quietly, she says, “Thank you for telling me now. I... I need to think about it. About what that means for me.”
I’m relieved to hear those words. I nod once. “Of course.”
The furrow in her brow softens—like she’s made peace with holding the weight of that possibility rather than trying to make sense of it too quickly. And when she lifts her handto touch my cheek, I feel an overwhelming desire to fall to my knees before her, the burden of withholding this information from her finally gone from my shoulders.
“You don’t look good,” she whispers. One of her thumbs touches the soft spot beneath my eye, which I know is ringed in black. “What happened?”
I place my hand over the top of hers, pressing her palm into the stubble I never shaved off. Once again, I tell her the truth, let it slip right off the tip of my tongue. “I was parted from you.”
A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. She lifts her free hand and places it on my other cheek. She stares into my eyes for a moment before pushing up onto her toes. For a fleeting second, we hesitate, breath mingling in the cold air. Every muscle in my body coils in anticipation.
Then she kisses me.
She tastes of snow and storms. As soon as my lips meet hers, I melt against her, softening like the sand that’s carried away when waves kiss the shore. My arms loop around her waist, and I lift her feet off the ground, crushing her body to mine.
Our bond rejoices, warming me from the inside out, chasing away the cold trying to steal my heat.
Maeve wraps her arms around my neck and breaks our kiss for just long enough to whisper, “I’ve missed you.”
Slowly, I set her back down, but I keep my hands on her waist, my forehead pressed to hers. “I’ve been lost without you,” I say. “And I never want to be lost like that again.”
The winter wind skates across the tower, tugging at Maeve’s hair and cloak, but between us, there is only warmth.
Her hands remain wrapped around my neck, her fingersplaying with the hair at my nape, like she’s not yet ready to step away. And after weeks of distance, I feel the same. I’m like a drowning man, clawing for the surface of the sea, and she’s finally given me a breath of air.
Then, from far below the tower, a whistle sounds, and Maeve startles at the sound.
“Oh no,” she says quickly, blinking as if coming slowly out of a trance. “I’m supposed to be getting my things packed. I have a carriage on the way.”
The thought of being parted from her again makes pain lance through me, cold and sharp. But I resist the urge to trap Maeve in my arms and never let her go.
“Of course,” I say, taking a step back from her.
But she reaches out and snags my hand, twining her fingers through mine. “Where are you spending the holiday?”
I gesture with my free hand to the castle behind us. “Here.”
“Do you have any plans?”
I shake my head once, unsure where she’s going with this. It’s not as if she can spend the holiday here with me, nor I with her. Though I desperately wish that weren’t the case.
A small smile pulls her lips up. “Then I have an idea.” Her voice is soft and edged with a mixture of nervousness and excitement. It piques my curiosity.
“And what idea is that?” I ask, trailing my thumb across her hand.
But she just blinks her violet eyes and says, “It’s a surprise.”
Part of me wants to push for answers—I’ve never much liked surprises—but another part of me, the part that softens in Maeve’s presence, is content to sit back and allow her to surprise me.
