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“But the Brink—”
“The Brink is still out there,” he told her, pointing toward the strange, modern city beyond. “It’s terrible, but it doesn’t mean we couldn’t be together. The Brink isn’t the thing holding us back.”
“It’s holding you back,” she told him softly. “I really think that we could use Seshat to complete it. I don’t think I have to give my life to do that. But more than that, Harte, could you really live in a future knowing you could have changed everything for the better but you didn’t?”
He cupped her face gently. “You are my better,” he said, letting his hands drift down her neck, down to her shoulders. He pulled her close. “I could live in any world as long as you’re there with me.”
“Harte…” Her voice was softer now.
He could not listen to any more of her arguments because he couldn’t bear even one second of thinking of a world without her in it. Damn the Brink, and damn magic as well. Nothing mattered but her. So he kissed her. Fiercely. Ardently. He put everything he had, everything he was into the kiss. Because he had to stop this disastrous line of thinking. He had to convince her that this could be enough, that they were enough. They could go back and stop Nibsy. They could even stop Thoth. But she didn’t have to die.
He couldn’t lose her again.
She pulled back from him. “I know what you’re doing, Darrigan.”
“What?” He kissed her again, this time on that delicate skin where her jaw met her neck.
“You’re trying to distract me,” she said, her voice going breathy.
“Is it working?” he asked as he nuzzled into her neck.
“Maybe,” she said with a sigh.
He nipped down to where her neck met her collarbone. “Then what’s the problem?”
“I’m not exactly sure.” She tipped her head to the side. “I just wouldn’t want you to think you’re getting away with it.”
Drawing back, he gave her his most charming grin. “Noted.”
Harte leaned in again, and this time she met him halfway, her lips parting for him. This time she was the one who deepened the kiss, who pulled him under. It wasn’t her magic that made time feel like it was standing still. The whole world narrowed to her mouth against his, her fingers threading through his hair, her body moving closer to him.
Her hands slid under his robe, her palms brushing against the flat planes of his chest. Pushing his robe off his shoulders, she leaned toward him, practically climbing into his lap to get closer still.
His hands were already beginning to untie the belt of her robe when he realized what he was doing. It took every ounce of his strength to pull away from her. To stop.
“We can’t do this,” he said, barely able to catch his breath. She was looking at him with a dreamy expression that made him only want to lean in again.
“I think the train to Chicago proved that we absolutely can, Harte.” She smiled as she kissed him again, and he couldn’t resist the happiness of her mouth against his. But when she started to lower her robe, he stopped her.
“You’re hurt, Esta.”
“I’m fine,” she said, lowering the robe a bit more, until her shoulders were bare to him and he could just see the gentle slope of her chest.
He tried to give her a stern look. “I just stitched you up.”
She shrugged, looking down at the bandage on her arm. “You did.” She glanced up through her lashes at him. “And I haven’t properly thanked you.”
Her hand was on his leg beneath his robe, and he couldn’t stop from trembling at her touch. But when she started to inch her fingers upward, he pushed her away.
“We can’t,” he said. “There’s too much of a risk. Until you’re married to me, and—”
She pulled back, her brows snapping together. “Married?”
“Of course,” he said, uneasy with her sudden stillness.
“I’m way too young to think about getting married,” she told him.
He frowned. “You’re older than half the brides in the Bowery.”
