“You never do.”
“I have,” he defended. “Perhaps I’m not in the practice of rejecting it, but I enjoy it. Is there a reason I shouldn’t?”
“It just doesn’t match the man I know,” she said. “You’re so proper and straitlaced all the time. And you’re religious—which is another topic we need to discuss. Yet, you don’t seem to worry about overindulging when it comes to wine.” She shook her head. “It doesn’t match your impeccable reputation.”
A flicker of agitation twisted Deckard’s stomach. “I don’t overindulge,” he defended.
“You regularly drink two to three glasses in an evening, should they be offered. While it isn’t exactly excessive, it is beyond what polite society would deem appropriate.”
Shifting uncomfortably, Deckard set the wine aside, suddenly put off by the alcohol. “I have no explanation to offer,” he said, keeping his tone light.
“You’re always beyond reproach in every area except this.” Her eyes widened in revelation. “Is that it? You hold yourself to such a high standard, and wine is the one vice you allow yourself?”
He chuckled nervously. “What do you mean?”
“You told me once that I’m the only woman you’ve kissed.” She raised her brow. “Thirty-two years is a long time to wait for such a simple affection. You keep your bloody orders as proof you’ve done your job, and I’ve never once seen you lose your temper. Yet, you let yourself drink, even to mild inebriation.”
Deckard cleared his throat, shifting away from her. He’d never considered his behavior, never thinking to question it. But her suggestion made him uneasy, like he was a fraud or a drunkard.
Evylin caught his wrist, stilling him. “Jonn, it isn’t a problem,” she said. “If anything, it makes me love you more.”
His eyes flashed to hers. “A flaw makes you love me more?”
“Yes,” she laughed. “Because, for once, I don’t feel completely inferior to you.”
“You’ve never been inferior to anyone.”
Despite his darkening mood, joy hummed into the air around Evylin. She scooted closer, resting a hand on his leg. “I have my next question,” she said.
Though hesitant to discover any more startling revelations about himself, Deckard nodded.
Evylin’s smile turned tender. “When did you first know that you loved me?”
Deckard instantly relaxed. “Two months ago,” he said. “Here.”
“What, in this room?” she asked, beaming at him.
“No, here in Loclight,” he corrected. He reached over to brush her hair behind her ear, then cupped her cheek. “At the ocean.”
Deckard could remember the exact moment as they stood beside the sea, the wind sweeping up her hair wildly. Her expression softened at the memory, and contentment pulsed between them.
“I’ve loved you longer than that,” he admitted. “But that was the first moment Iknewthat I loved you.”
The softest flush of pink tinged her face. “I’m sorry it took me so long to figure it out myself,” she whispered.
“Don’t be sorry.”
“But Iam,” she insisted, holding his gaze adamantly. “We could have had so much more time together if I had just been honest with myself...and you.”
Deckard ran his finger across her jaw, resting his forehead against hers.
“I think I knew then too,” Evylin admitted. “It’s why I unpacked the way I did. Even if you were sent to Ostwatch, I refused to leave you. I couldn’t fathom losing you for a second, even then. I just wasn’t brave enough to say it.”
For a brief moment, Deckard grieved what could have been. If Evylin had opened up and trusted him, they might have enjoyed two additional months of love like this. Her fears had cost them eighty days of happiness.
“We have a hundred years ahead of us,” Deckard reminded them both. “What are mere days?”
He tipped her chin up and kissed her. The heat of magic thrummed gently in his chest. He left it dormant but leaned in to deepen the kiss. He slipped Evylin’s coat from her shoulders,preparing to draw her close, but she set a hand on his chest to stop him.
