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“Quinn, I didn’t know. Not for sure and what would you have me say?”

“Who was it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Seelie or Unseelie?”

He looks up for the first time and surprise is clear as day on his face.

“Oh, you think I didn’t know?” I ask, mocking in my tone. “You think I’m a stupid little girl that you can manipulate any way you want? Is that what you think?” He opens his mouth to answer but I cut him off before he can speak. “You can think again. I know a lot more than you think. Now answer the damn question. Who was it?”

Fire flashes in his eyes and for a moment I’m sure he’s going to argue with me if for no other reason than the sake of arguing. Because it’s what we do. A crazy sense of déjà vu slides in and I feel as if he and I have played this same scene over and over.

There are so many layers and innuendoes in the sense of repetition. Variations between us. Sometimes we’re closer than others. Sometimes we’re friends, or enemies, and sometimes we’re lovers.

It’s an understanding but I don’t know where it comes from or why. I don’t know if it’s real, any more than my life has been real since I returned from Scotland. The breadth of the lie that was perpetrated on me and on my dad is unbelievable. If one of them can do that, then how can I trust anything?

“Quinn, it wasn’t me.”

“That’s not an answer to the question, Dugald.”

His presence increases. We stare into one another’s eyes and I’m acutely aware of my heart thumping and his maleness. He smells of pine and the forest mixed with a muskiness that accelerates my pulse. His lips are hard, but I know they’ll be soft if I kiss them.

“Unseelie,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

“Why?”

I’m breathing heavily, and each time I inhale my nipples press hard against the lace bra I’m wearing, and they come oh so close to touching him. He shakes his head and the loose curls of his hair stir around his face.

“I can’t answer for them, Quinn,” he says. His voice is half an octave deeper and he’s breathing heavily. “I assume it’s to manipulate your choice.”

The air all but crackles around us. I want to punch something, but at the same time I want him. I want him to kiss me, hold me, and do more, dirtier things to me. Things a good girl doesn’t do.

“Moira is an Unseelie. Did you know?”

“Yes.”

“And again, you didn’t tell me.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“That’s not your choice to make, is it?”

“The choices in all of this are yours, Quinn. I keep telling you that.”

“I don’t feel like I have very many choices.”

Desire thrums in my blood like an orchestral swell building towards a crashing crescendo. This is wrong but it doesn’t matter because it feels right. If we’ve done this before, what can it hurt to do it again? No, it doesn’t make sense, but I’m not thinking clearly.

“Is she evil?”

“Define evil.”

“Damn it, Dugald, can you never answer a question without another question?”

“No, he can’t,” the Druid says, stepping into the clearing.

His approach shatters the moment between Dugald and me. I take a step back, feeling like I got caught doing something wrong. Anger flashes and burns away the shame as I turn on the Druid.

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