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Why do I believe every word out of his mouth?
But most of all, why would he choose my safety, my life, my everything over his?
“Why what? Why save you? Because I’ve loved you since I was twelve years old when you told your mother you’d rather eat a pinecone than wear a corset. I loved you when you didn’t love me. I loved you when you were married to someone else, when you were pregnant with another man’s child. And I loved you even when you hated me. I loved you before we were bound… and I love you still.”
Nodding, for once my head empty of all the trash that brings me down every day. Rhys saved me, doing it the only way he knew how—twice, if memory serves. He pulled me from the flames of Iva’s torture. He watched out for me for years, shouldering the blame of something he had no control over.
For the first time, I’m able to put my guilt down, the weight of it all leaving my shoulders like a stack of bricks. No regrets, no recriminations. Nothing but him and the feeling of his rough, callused hands cupping my jaw and the tips of his fingers softly scraping my scalp.
Leaning down, Rhys touches his forehead to mine, the barest hint of breath whispering across my skin. The relief of it makes my shoulders sag. Letting it all go—the deaths of Lucien and my unborn child, a century and a half of agony—all of it.
The regret and guilt were the only things standing in the way of the bond, and now that those obstacles are out of the way, all that’s left is my tie to Rhys. And I don’t know if it’s a spell, or if this is what Fate has destined for us.
I don’t know if it’s real or manufactured.
I’m not even sure I care.
All I know is, Rhys is here, and safe, and in my arms—something I’ve wanted in the back of my mind for more than a century but would never allow myself to have.
His lips brush mine, sliding back and forth against them as my mouth parts to breathe him in. His scent fills my nose—it’s a faint mix of the Scotch he’s been sipping, spice, and something altogether Rhys.
Shuddering at that simple touch of his lips, the iron bands of the bond seal around my heart. I wonder if sheer force of will kept the spell at bay for this long.
Was I just too stubborn to let myself love him?
Did I simply need to forgive him?
To forgive myself?
After all this time?
Then he’s kissing me for real, his lips softer than I ever imagined. They cradle mine delicately, and then they turn harder, firmer, fiercer as his hands move from my cheeks to my hips to haul me against his chest.
My hands move, too. They fist in the shirt at his waist, pulling, tugging to get him to me. I need him closer. His tongue strokes into my mouth, and the taste—Fates—it’s as if I was born to kiss him.
Maybe I was.
His hunger makes my belly dip and knot, my skin flushing as my entire body aches with need. I can’t get close enough.
His hands burn against my skin as they climb under my shirt, biting into my flesh in the best possible way. The faint tear of fabric reaches my ears just as a tug jostles my arms—and then my shirt is gone. But his shirt is still in the way. The problem is quickly remedied when I rip open his button-up like tissue paper at a birthday party. I pull my mouth from his—but just barely—sharing the crackling air between our scarcely parted lips. Opening my eyes, I peer into the rich coffee color of his.
Those eyes are dancing, his face the happiest, lightest I’ve ever seen it. I didn’t know Rhys could look this free.
But then I glance down, and I’m absolutely horrified. Not because Rhys is ugly—he could never be ugly. He could be missing limbs, his face could be half-gone, and it wouldn’t matter—not now, not anymore. I’m appalled at what has been done to this beautiful man.
How much pain he must have endured to keep from breaking my heart.
How could I have blamed him for a century?
How could I have hated him?
He has endured more than his fair share of agony, too.
Scars run the length of his torso, extending into his trousers. Five thick, white lines as wide as a pencil run from his neck down through his pectoral, past his ribs, and through the muscles of his abdomen. Three burns as big as my hand mar his Legion markings on his stomach.
And the last one—that one? I inflicted.
A three-inch scar sits just above his belt, faint compared to the others he’s suffered.
