Page 52 of The Filigree Key

“The rodeo,” I breathed, eyes fluttering open.

Arthur’s face was white, his jaw clenched so hard I could hear his teeth grinding. The amber light in his eyes was no longer dull, but bright with tightly reined fury.

And fear.

Swallowing thickly, I waded through the emotions of that memory and whispered, “I’d just seen my first warlock. Jakob Tabrass. It was . . . terrifying. And you. You had your hand on my knee. It was so simple a touch, but it anchored me. I could control that fear because you were there. I, I clung to you because, even though I was afraid to admit it at the time, I knew I was safe with you. More than safe. Protected. I think it was then that I started to fall in—”

“I said stop,” Arthur roared.

His strike was blindingly fast. It was an open-handed blow, fingers splayed wide as if to dissipate smoke from a burning pan. I could barely throw up an arm before his hand caught me on the side of the head, knocking me straight to the ground.

There was no arcing through the air. No strange distortion in this dream world where I floated away like a balloon. One moment I was standing upright, the next, pain exploded through my hip, elbow, and shoulder as I hit the stone floor.

The rose burst as it struck the ground, petals splattering like paint.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Shock, heartbreak, fear—it all ripped through me in a guttural cry. The oak tree erupted, incensed by this betrayal, but I wouldn’t let us react. I wouldn’t hurt Arthur back, and the Green Mother knew I could. With a sob, I blinked my eyes against the burning tears and forced myself to sit up.

I had to try again. I had to reach him.

The lumberjack shifter stood over me, fist raised for another punishing blow. His chest heaved, his breath blasting through clenched teeth, and his eyes were wild. “Y-you—” Gulping, he looked at the redness left behind on his hand. Blood from where his fingers had caught on the thorns pooled under his fingernails. The amber light vanished from his eyes.

“We should away,” the wight urged. The setter slunk forward, angling to take my sleeve in its teeth.

Cowering, I ducked my head and reached for the fallen rose. A swirl of green magic had its petals reattached and looking like new. I offered it again, half in parlay and half to ward off another of the bear shifter’s strikes. As if a rose could do such a thing. “Please, Arthur. Don’t.”

When another strike did not come, I chanced a look at the lumberjack. With the movement, the chains I wore around my neck slipped free from the fox-fur coat. The amazonite pendant was as luscious a blue-green as ever, but the Celtic shield . . ..

It shone like a small white star.

There could be no more doubt now I was the real Meadow Hawthorne, not when the amulet that was coded to both of us declared otherwise.

“Meadow,” Arthur gasped. He glanced down to the wounds—now sealed—left behind by the rose thorns. “It’s . . . really you, isn’t it? Oh, sweetheart—”

The ground shook as he dropped to his knees and cradled my face, gingerly sweeping away the hair torn loose from my braid by his slap. He sucked in a ragged breath, his hazel eyes glassy and miserable. “The illusions always break like smoke when I strike them,” he rambled, voice cracking. “Nothing physical exists here, but you, the rose— Spirits above, I’m so sorry. I’d never hurt you. Oh, Meadow—”

“Thistle thorns.” My groan turned into a watery chuckle. “You hit like a freight train.”

Arthur gave a violent shake of his head. Three tears winked like choice crystal before splattering against the stones. “I’ll never forgive myself.”

“I’m already healed, bear claw.” There wasn’t even a phantom sting tingling my cheek.

His warm, trembling hands moved from my face to my shoulders, down my arms to my waist. With seemingly no effort at all, the lumberjack shifter hauled me into his lap for a fierce embrace. The rose dropped, forgotten, from my grip.

“How are you here?” he whispered. He couldn’t stop touching me. His hands roamed from my back to my legs around his waist then repeated. Over and over, squeezing, caressing, kneading, convincing himself that I wasn’t a dream. “Spirits above, I can touch you. Curse this coat.”

There was a frantic moment where we attacked the buttons on my coat, then only a thinner layer of wool separated his hands from my skin, my breasts from the paw print tattoo on his chest.

It took all my concentration to answer him, for my body was doing the same thing his was—reassuring itself I was indeed in my true mate’s arms. My hands traced the familiar landscape of his shoulders, the broad plains of his back, the softness of his hair. A deep inhale brought the comforting aromas of old-growth forest, honey, sunlight, and him. I’d never need air again, just his scent.

“I made friends with a wight,” I finally managed to reply. “Can’t you see it?”

“Only you see me, Daughter of Violet. I didn’t want to agitate him further,” the wight told me.

“I see only you,” Arthur said. “You’re all I want to see.”

Then his arms banded around my ribs and he buried his face against my neck. His shoulders trembled, his breath shuddered, and he simply clung to me. Overwhelmed, I melted against him, my grief at our separation and my relief at our reunion leaking into his shoulder. His fingers splayed, touching as much of me as he could, fingertips digging almost painfully into my back. I layered my arms around his strong neck and dug my hands into his thick brown hair, cradling him close.