Page 63 of Mage Massacres

“My choices were for the right reasons, but still wrong this time. I knew I should have told you before we started. I wanted to tell you, to explain the spell and why I needed it to happen before we came here. I was hoping that I’d be awake before the guys got to us. I didn’t realize they would come rushing out the way they did.”

When I remained quiet, his saddened gaze fell on me. “That bad, aye? Not even snark?”

“I’m just listening, Palmer.” I shrugged. “Soaking it all up, making sure I understand. I’m not mad at you; I’m mad at me. I let my feelings for you cloud my instinct, and in return, I ended up terrified and hurt in a way that I can’t heal on my own. That’s not a feeling that I’m accustomed to.”

He let his head hang, whispering, “I finally understood the little tornado on your foot. Right at the end, everything hit me. The meaning, the guilt, feelings that I hadn’t comprehended. I knew I cared about you; I just didn’t know how quickly those feelings had grown from a potential bond to something tangible.”

His sigh was quiet, the sound full of confusion and self-loathing. “I... It didn’t occur to me that you might feel the same way. Every time I think I understand you, there’s a new depth that I can’t quite grasp.”

I glanced at the sky before meeting his gaze. His gray eyes followed my movements. His irises were the exact shade of the clouds today. His accent was lighter than I’d ever heard it, or maybe I was just used to it now.

“There are times where you’re so intense that it’s hard to talk to you,” he informed me. “I keep thinking that rage fills you, outweighs all the other emotions you might feel. But that’s not it at all. You don’t do anything in halves. Everything with you is intense and—”

“Balls to the wall,” I thought, finishing his sentence.

He smiled sheepishly at me for the first time. “I was going to say unpredictable, but that works too.”

“Why would you think that I didn’t have feelings for you?” I couldn’t stop the question from springing past my lips. I was pondering to myself more than asking him, but he shrugged.

“I might be cocky, but I’m not that arrogant. You do have a reputation,” he teased.

I gave him an unimpressed expression.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Just hear me out.” He held his hands up, but his lips tilted too, revealing an infuriating smirk.

“You are Sloane King.”

I nodded. I knew who I was. We didn’t need to start that far into the beginning.

“That statement alone is daunting. But to find out that you’re my mate? That was interesting news. The reclusive daughter of Kings, who never let anyone get close enough to know her, was sitting at a table just as dumbstruck as I was. Would you believe me if I said Novak was the only one who wasn’t shocked?

“We’d rehashed an old argument weeks before we met you. He was convinced that was why your parents threw us together instead of making us stay where we were needed. Why be the Master’s apprentice if I’m not going to be there to help with all the bullshit? I told him he was dreaming.”

He rolled his eyes, and I couldn’t contain my snort.

“Why would I let myself believe that, not only were you my mate, but that you would care too?”

“Why would you think that I wasn’t capable of caring?” I countered.

“I didn’t say you weren’t capable. I said why would I let myself believe it?”

I shook my head. “I didn’t let people get near me because I fall too fast, and I bring death with me, Palmer. I bottled up my emotions because they’re volatile, and I can’t control them. You didn’t want to believe I had feelings for you because you were harboring old guilt. You don’t think you’re worthy, and I can’t understand that.”

“Did you not think the same thing?” he challenged, raising a brow.

“I did,” I admitted. “But a moment of weakness is vastly different from years of judging yourself.”

He tipped his head. “Well, hello, Pot. I’m Kettle. It’s lovely to meet you.”

I grinned, prowling toward him on silent steps. I was hyper-aware of his quickening heartbeat, his shallow breaths, the slow bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. The cat-and-mouse game that we played was thrilling, especially when I was the mouse.

His gaze hardened, his chin tilting up.“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Love,” he warned, his voice losing the soft tone in an instant.

“Don’t,” I reprimanded, even though his tone threatened to stop me in my tracks. “Don’t pet-name me while I’m still mad.”