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“I’m here,” Draven said.
“But the army took the Aerie.”
“They did.”
“I heard the explosion. We all heard.” It didn’t make sense. He couldn’t have survived.
“They brought explosives and breached the Black Gate.” Draven shook his head. “I just didn’t have the numbers to keep them out. They swarmed us.”
Charlotte closed her eyes, remembering all the people loyal to Draven. They’d fight to the last breath for him. Was she crying? Her lashes were wet. “All those people.”
“I negotiated a surrender.”
“Now I know this is a dream. Draven would never surrender.”
“Someone very important to me told me that being the master of the mountain kept me frozen.” He brushed his hand along the side of her face.
Charlotte removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes. She was definitely crying now, and not in an elegant or pretty way. Her chest heaved, too full of want and yearning and bitter hope and relief. Ugly tears rolled down her face, and her nose ran. Her eyes would be puffy and red.
“Don’t tease me,” she pleaded.
He pulled her to him. Sobs racked her body. Somehow, despite the dust and the dirt, he smelled of crisp winter air—and a little bit like dust and dirt—and that made her cry harder. This was joy and relief and it was brutal. Her emotions felt too large for her body. All she could do was let them escape.
Finally, when she settled enough to speak, she spoke the words: “I love you, Draven. I’m sorry I didn’t have the courage to tell you before. I’ve regretted it every day since we parted.”
His arms tightened around her. “Tell me again,” he said, face buried in her hair.
“I love you.” She tilted her face up to hold his gaze. “All of you. The good and the bad. The past and the future.”
She really wanted to share a future with him.
The kiss was soft, almost shy. Draven pulled back, uncertain.
“No,” Charlotte said, grabbing onto his dusty coat and pulling him closer. She kissed him hard, pouring all her fears and doubts, devotion, and desire into it. Fangs nipped against her lips. His hand cradled the back of her head, tangling in her hair.
“You love me,” he said, his voice soft with disbelief.
“I love you,” she agreed.
He smiled, the first time she had ever seen the expression cross his face. It was radiant, like the sun breaking on a cold winter morning and reflecting on the ice. Brilliant.
Dazzling.
Hers.
“Will you invite me in?” he asked.
She pulled out of his embrace. “I thought vampires didn’t need an invitation.”
“I’m trying to be polite.”
She ushered him in, taking the opportunity to pull herself together. She sniffed, drying her face and leaky nose with a handkerchief. What did etiquette say about lovers returning from the dead? Did you offer tea? Something stronger seemed appropriate, but she had the liquor cabinet emptied. All she had to offer was a carafe of room-temperature water.
Charlotte touched the vessel, a silent offer.
“Go ahead. I’m thirsty,” he said.
Thirsty or thirsty? Now in the light, she got a good look at his appearance. His clothes were travel-stained and had seen better days. The boots were worn thin. He was gaunt and pale beyond pale, not that his complexion had ever been a healthy color. Her love looked ill.
