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“You are the only thing that has ever had meaning to me.” Edward’s lips brush the top of my head, making my brain shimmer. “I wish you could see what I see when I look at you.”
I laugh hollowly, thinking of everything that’s happened tonight. I’ve hurt every person in the world I care about – so much so that Pax thought he’d be better off dead than in my life – there’s a dead priest on my floor, and I just had to stab Jack the Ripper. “And what’s that? A hurricane wearing the face of a girl and destroying everything in her path?”
“No, Brianna. You are a rare and lovely flower – you make the world more beautiful just by existing. Centuries ago, I wrote poetry about love, even though I had never truly been in love. I felt as though when I looked at artwork, heard stirring music, or read something beautiful, I could reach out and touch the edges of it. Anything that could cure this wretched longing in my heart must be the most remarkable magic.
“So I wrote about the only thing, I – the most spoiled prince in all the lands – have never been able to possess; a love that endures. I didn’t realize then that I had written my poetry about you. Sometimes it feels as though I dreamed you into existence, but that is far too exquisite a gift from the gods for the likes for me.”
I try to speak, but my voice catches. How can he say these things? About me? After everything he’s endured, after the way I’ve hurt him over and over? How can he feel this way?
Edward’s eyes blaze, and I find myself drowning in the depth of his feelings for me, flailing about for something to hold me above the surface. He blinks, and he places his hands over mine. His ghostly fingers dig into me, and his touch that is not quite touch pulls my hands from his face.
“Brianna.” He sounds serious and so, so, sad. “There’s something I must tell you. But when I tell you, you will hate me and—”
“You literally crawled inside a monster’s skin to save us tonight. Nothing you say to me can make you hate me.”
Edward’s face crumples. “Usually, I enjoy gambling away my fortune on impossible bets, but alas, that is a wager you will lose.”
“I think we should get back to the house,” Ambrose says behind us. “We have to figure out what to do about Father Bryne, and Pax is struggling, and—”
“Pax is fine!” Pax growls. I look over and see that he has found his sword and is waving it aggressively at a spindly bush. “Get back, foul demon!”
Ambrose runs over and tries to get Pax to stop waving the sword around.
Edward’s eyes flick to Ambrose, and then back to me. He strokes his finger down my cheek. “Never mind. I am being silly. What I have to tell you is nothing of importance. It can wait.”
* * *
The four ofus stagger back to the house. With every step, Pax’s body grows stronger. He’s no longer disoriented and lunging at shrubberies. By the time we reach the front door, he seems more like himself. Almost as if I didn’t just watch him die.
But I did. And I won’t forget it. I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling this sheer, terrifying panic at the idea of him never being in my life again.
And Edward…I glance over at my prince, who trails behind us, his features haunted. My stomach churns with unease. What did he wish to tell me before? He says it’s not important, but I’m not an idiot – I can tell it might be the most important thing Edward has ever done. But he needs to tell me on his own time, when he’s comfortable. I don’t want to push him even deeper into this depression that’s come over him.
Besides, Ambrose is right – we do have a little priest problem that needs sorting.
Pax skips through the open front door and comes to a stop over Father Bryne’s prone body. He bends over and shakes his ass in the priest’s slack face. The loud tear of a fart rips through the silent manor.
“Take that, for by Bacchus’ hairy testicles, I am alive!” Pax cries at the priest. “Your puny Ripper couldn’t hurt Pax Drusus Maximus or his friends or his beautiful not-girlfriend!”
Edward makes a face. “What wasinthose cocktails? You smell like you were pulled into hell alongside the Ripper.”
Ah, how quickly Edward pulls that arrogant mask over himself to hide what’s going on inside.
They start bickering, but I tune them out. There’s a dead priest on the rug. Unlike his monster, he hasn’t disappeared.
He’s real. A real dead body. A real murder victimon my rug.
Ambrose moves beside me, his hand finding mine, his ghostly fingers comforting. “I am sorry about this,” he says sadly. “I would turn myself in to the authorities if I could…”
“It’s okay. You saved us all, too.” All three of my ghosts have been incredibly brave tonight, and after I said such horrible things to them…
My stomach churns with shame.
“And I will never apologise for that,” Ambrose says with a savage finality that makes my knees weak. I turn to him then, studying the tense set of his perfect features, the way his brow is furrowed in concentration. “I know it was a happenstance that placed that gun in my hand and sent the bullet flying true, but I need you to know that I would lay down my life to protect yours, Bree. We all would.”
Tears prick in my eyes. “I know you would. And I’m sorry for—”
“Hush, there’s nothing to apologise for.” Ambrose runs the tip of his finger along the inside of my wrist. “How will we rid ourselves of the troublesome priest?”
