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His answers.

Gold and red race across the space between us, winding around our hands even though we aren't touching.

“I don't expect you to say it back.”

My throat closes.

“And I'm not telling you because you're my promised. I'm telling you because you're you, Sweet Belinda.”

A tear slips down my cheek. Damian's hand twitches. But he doesn't reach for me.

He waits.

Goddess damn him.

Even now, he's giving me the choice.

“You really love me?”

His expression turns almost offended.

“Sweet, I gave away six bushels of my Brandywines.”

I laugh through the tears.

“I don't know if I understand the significance.”

“Ask Owen. He considered having me evaluated.”

Another laugh escapes me. Damian smiles.

And something inside me finally loosens.

Not all the way.

I'm still scared.

Still angry about some things.

Still trying to understand what this bond means and what it's doing to my magic.

But maybe being afraid doesn't mean I have to run.

Maybe being chosen doesn't always mean someone is trying to own me.

Maybe sometimes being chosen means someone sees exactly who I am—and stays.

I look at the empty chair across from me.

Then at Damian on his knees in front of me.

Goddess.

This man.

This impossible, infuriating Devil who flew into my life—literally—and somehow managed to turn everything I thought I knew about myself upside down.

“Your gnocchi is getting cold.”