Page 42 of Fallen Court

“I’m not sure.” But his head angled away. “My magic must have redirected us when you grabbed me.”

“Just as long as you can’t read my thoughts.” That would be too much, but the look on his face suggested he wished that he could. I cared less about the how, though. “What was that when we nipped? It felt like something was trying to grab us.”

He drew a deep breath, any amusement long forgotten. “It had to be the Hunt. They’re getting faster.”

“Faster?” I asked with a squeak. If they were getting faster, that meant…

“They caught up with me in New York,” he admitted, frowning as he reached behind his back. “The bastards got my gun.”

He sounded more annoyed than anything.

My mouth fell open, but only one word came out. “What?”

“They can track my magic when I nip or use a glamour. Or basically do anything. They must have figured out how to grab me mid-nip, which makes sense.” He took my hand like I might float away. It felt like I would. “You move between worlds when you nip. They were waiting for me—I should have seen it coming. I guess I’ll be driving from now on.”

None of it made sense, especially how calm he was, given that he’d barely escaped his would-be executioners, who were probably on their way to us again. I jumped up—or tried to. Lach held me fast.

I tugged against his hold, something primal taking control of me. “We need to go before they—”

“They can’t reach us here. This part of the city is warded.”

“Please start saying something that makes sense.” My head was swimming now.

“The Hunt can’t enter New Orleans, thanks to a spell Ciara cooked up. The point is that we’re safe, even if we have a long walk home from here.” He shot me a crooked smile that sent warmth pooling in my core. “Or I can call for a ride.”

Something told me he didn’t want to do that any more than I wanted him to make that call. Not when my body seemed to be waking up to the fact that he was here and alive, real and touchable and mine.

“I can’t believe you found me.” A part of me hadn’t dared to utter the words—the part that remained convinced that one wrong move would break the spell.

Slashes of moonlight streamed through the wooden blinds and illuminated the sharp lines of his face. He cupped my face gently, the pads of his thumbs stroking across my cheeks.

“I meant it when I said I would never let you go.” A rough tremor laced his voice, and the sound of it hit me squarely in the gut.

A sob racked through me, my knees suddenly going weak, and I swayed, about to crumble. But his hands remained fixed on my face, those unblinking eyes never leaving mine as though he refused to let me out of his sight. He didn’t move closer. He didn’t draw me against his body. Instead, he waited. Lach stayed rigid, the taut energy radiating from him somehow as soothing as the fingers caressing my cheeks. My own need became unbearable as he waited for my signal. It was totally and completely unnecessary.

And I loved him a little more for it.

“Kiss me,” I whispered.

He groaned with relief, his eyes shuttering as he brought his mouth to mine. My palms braced his hard chest, fingers sinking to grab fistfuls of his shirt so that he couldn’t vanish. The kiss was soft and searching, despite the urgent ache that spread through me at every point of contact. I needed to feel more of him—needed to erase the memories of our separation—and I pressed into his arms. Lach’s hand moved away from my face, one tangling in my hair as the other cradled my neck with heartbreaking gentleness. He deepened the kiss until the world faded away once more. I forgot the pain behind us and the danger before us. There was only him and the promise his lips made against my own.

When he finally pulled away, I was breathless. He rested his forehead against mine, the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air between us.

I broke first. “I thought I lost you. He said you died.”

“I will always find my way back to you. Not even death will stop me,” he promised, brushing fingers softly along the nape of my neck. He paused. “Did he hurt you?”

A careful question.

I shook my head, sighing when his eyes narrowed. I didn’t want caution and concern. Not when we’d been through hell and back and my body ached for proof that I was alive—proof only his touch could give me. I wanted to feel him moving inside me until I believed it wasn’t a dream. I needed hands and teeth and skin and him.

“He didn’t,” I said, shifting close enough that Lach’s cedar-and-spice scent filled my nostrils and sent a pang spiraling through me. It was more than need that I was feeling. I almost didn’t understand it. “Well, I guess there might be some emotional scars from telling me the man I love was dead.”

The words left my mouth before I could haul them back. It wasn’t that I regretted saying it. I just hadn’t really thought about it. And now it was out there, and I couldn’t take it back, and if he didn’t…

My gaze dipped to my feet, but Lach reached for my chin and lifted my face to his. His smile spread, the shadows fading from his eyes. “Love?”

“Don’t let it go to your head. Your ego can’t—”