His hands slip under my apron strings, under the hem of my shirt, his fingers leaving kisses on my spine. Glad we’re on the same page. I let go of him long enough to fiddle with the apron’s knot—this thing needs to come off. Now. But my fingers are shaking—hell,all of meis. My heart rate is spiking so hard, I wonder how in the world I waited so long to kiss this man.
He grabs my hands battling the tie and throws them right back around his shoulders. “Just leave the apron on.” His mouth claims the next whimper that slips out of me.
Never mind what I said before.Thisis better than any farmers’ market.
And I’m right—he tastes like thyme, even without his magic. The crisp herb bites my tongue, and soon I’m wondering if the rest of him will taste like thyme—
“Thyme?” he pants, pulling back to gulp down air.
Whoops. Said that part aloud.
Somehow, his hands are already back under the hem of my shirt. With each frantic inhale, his hard chest brushes mine and I’m savoring every second of the friction. I can tell he is, too. Or, I canfeelhe is. A hot blush fills my face, and it’s not from the fireplace.
Instead of putting him on the spot, I nuzzle my face into the crook of his neck, leaving sharp kisses as I go. “You know, if you’d gotten your wish and started over, you’d be younger than me now.”
“Maybe then I could keep up with you.”
I find his earlobe and take it between two of my canines. He swears, the sound more prayer than curse.
“Farewitches can bite, too.Sir,” I taunt in his ear, loving how he shivers on the last word.
“Honey,” he rasps, voice half gone. “I don’t have much left in me.”
“That’s okay, I’m the better driver anyway.”
His deep, heady chuckle rumbles in my veins. To my disappointment, he untangles my arms from around him and pulls back to look at me. His irises are alight, but his brows pull together over sunken eye sockets. “I’m afraid I’m not going to survive you.”
A splinter of guilt pricks me. He’d abandon any remaining restraint if I asked him to. But I need him strong, strong enough to survive tomorrow. Or else there is noafter.
When I lower my gaze to our hands, clasped together against his heaving chest, I scream.
“Your fingers!”
Only then does he take his eyes off me long enough to look down, too. “That is new.”
His fingers, the skin, bone—gone. Or nearly gone. I can stillfeelhim. But just like with Lazlo’s hands, I’m looking at the vague shape of a palm, a ghostly outline of knuckles and digits. Just like Lazlo, full stop.
“You’re fading now, too.” This time, it’s a whisper. I shouldn’t be this shocked, honestly. Even the Warlock thought this might happen. My legs drop from around him as I fight for the logical part of my brain, which flew away the moment he started in with his tongue.
Our shared bloodline tangles things somehow. As Lazlo’s health worsens, so does mine.
His words tumble around my mind. My pulse jitters, but now for a different reason.
“When you said Lazlo is part of your bloodline,” I begin, as loud as I dare.
I let the unspoken question bloom between us.
It’s the question that’s been chafing against me for weeks now, but the answer didn’t begin to emerge for me until our night in the cave. Like the darkness finally expelled the harsh light that kept me from looking closely. Some truths live in the small silhouettes right under our feet. I just couldn’t see it yet. Until now.
The real truth about Lazlo.
It takes him a second to register the shift in my face. Then realization cuts through the tenderness of his charmingly ravished expression. As he hardens back into the Warlock I know best, the self-reproach festering in his eyes makes me want to burn something to the ground.
I have no idea where he came from, if he came from anywhere at all.
“He’s…” My voice cracks. “He’s you. Isn’t he.”
Silence.
