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“All right.” Declan reaches up, his hand hovering beside my cheek for a beat before he pulls it away again. “I’m sorry. About before—I shouldn’t have done that.”
The kiss…
He’s talking about the kiss.
Even an hour ago, I would have agreed with him. But now…
Now, I don’t know what to believe. Right is wrong and wrong is right, and the only thing I know for sure is that when I look into Declan’s eyes, I feel real in a way I’ve never felt before.
And it’s so nice to feel real. To be seen as no one else has ever seen me—not as a planting or one of many daughters or a traveling companion or a terror that comes in the night. As something more. Something special.
It's a scary feeling in some ways, but safe, too.
“You don’t have to be sorry,” I say, the scary and safe swelling in equal measure as I tip my face closer to his.
“No?” He holds completely still like he’s been frozen in a block of ice.
Only his eyes move, shifting from my eyes to my lips and back again as I lift my hand, resting it against his cheek.
“No,” I whisper.
And then I close my eyes and lean in. My lips brush his, soft and searching, but also electric, like the sky before a storm.
My heart expands with joy, and something like a scream rises inside me. It’s a big feeling, as fierce as pain or grief, but…exquisite—sparkling and shining, like dancing in the warm rain as the sun comes out from behind the clouds.
I am overcome. Undone. So alive it feels like I might die of it.
Declan’s arms wrap around me, and he kisses me again, a firmer press of flesh that makes me shiver as he whispers against my lips, “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
I smile, my teeth bumping against his through our skin. “Me, too.”
He pulls back, flushed and grinning. And I’m flushed and grinning, too, and suddenly there is a secret between us. A secret only the two of us know and only the two of us can ever share and it is…perfect.
Perfect. Even in the midst of all the chaos and confusion.
“We should go eat,” he says, taking my hand. “Before they wonder what’s happened to us. You don’t need to wash your face. You’re beautiful as ever. As always.”
“You, too.” I stand beside him, forgetting Wig tucked into the top of the shift beneath my dress until he goes slipping down my belly with a soft, terrified squeak and out onto the ground beneath my dress.
I shiver at the tickle of his fur then freeze, giving him time to run away. At Declan’s curious look, I give a tight smile. “My foot. It was sleeping,” I improvise. “That’s what they call it when it goes all tingly and numb?”
He smiles. “Yeah. Just give it a second; it should go away pretty quickly. Feels wicked strange until it does, though.”
“It does,” I agree.
And it isn’t a lie. I do feel strange. And wicked.
But maybe I don’t have to stay that way…
I can’t undo the damage I’ve done any more than a chef can pull an uncracked egg out of cake—Mother’s always made it clear that’s not the way night magic works—but perhaps I can change the course of Fate. There has to be a way to stop this, to spare the human race more of my particular breed of pain.
And if there is, Poke will know it.
Skritches are observant creatures, always sticking their sharp noses into other creatures’ business, and Poke was planted long before Wig or my sisters and me. He has a deep and crowded memory. If ever a planting defied Mother and lived to tell about it, he’ll know the story and how they managed to do it.
And if he doesn’t know…
If there is no way out, but the worst way…
“It’s better now. Let’s go,” I say, forcing a smile as I tighten my fingers around Declan’s.
I can’t think about the worst way, not yet.
For now, I will choose hope.
For now, I will choose to lose myself in Declan’s eyes as he smiles a smile that is just for me. That is…ours.
Chapter Twelve
Declan
I was pretty sure I was in love with Clara before.
But now? After that kiss?
Now, it pours out of me like a waterfall, an endless, unceasing stream. It’s like someone ripped a hole in my chest and my heart is singing in the center of it.
Who knew a kiss would be like that? Like stepping into a lit room after a lifetime in the dark. Like a piece of Clara’s soul whispering to mine in a language only the two of us understand.
And I think she felt it, too—how special it was.
She’s spent most of the meal dodging Mrs. Barolo’s questions about her home and family—giving halting, non-answers even more vague than what she’s shared with me so far—but she keeps glancing my way. And every time, her lips twitch up and light flickers in her eyes and I feel like an unexpected present discovered under the tree on Christmas morning.
