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Chapter Twenty-Seven
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Ialmost laughed.
But holy shit…he wasn’t kidding.
Not in this reality or any dimension beyond it.
“You—you’re,”—I sent a wad of lead back down my throat in order to finish—“you’re serious.”
His lips parted. Lifted a little, hesitant but persistent, before he pushed forward, pressing them to mine. He only pulled back by an inch—too far but not far enough—before answering, “Yes, raismette. I am.”
Raismette.
Fuck.
Literally translated, it meant reason. But the bigger context…
Was huge.
As in, the kind of shit an Arcadian man reserved for his life mate. The woman he considered his partner, his best friend.
His wife.
Everything was real but surreal. My heart throbbed in time to the rush of the waves outside, but felt just as far away. My lungs pumped air in slices blazing hot then arctic cold. My eyes studied the devastating man before me, but through the perspective of my heart, saw much more. The heart he was offering in return. The life he was offering. The future by his side…
Shit.
Shit.
No.
“No.”
He flinched as if I’d struck him. I didn’t blame him. At the same time, I was damn glad for the distance. Or was I? It didn’t help the strange chill that coursed over my whole body, brought on by complete shock. No. Complete terror.
But I didn’t tell him that. Dammit, I couldn’t. What woman in their right mind willingly said no when a man—a prince—like Shiraz Noir Cimarron proposed?
A woman who wasn’t in their right mind.
A person who planned everyone else’s happy-ever-after because she was too messed-up to ever get hers right. Who had no idea how a real relationship even worked, because she needed to be spanked and tamed before getting off. Who had built up so many walls of snark and sarcasm to guard her spirit, she’d even written herself off as a crazy-ass little brat.
She wasn’t wife material.
She wouldn’t ever be.
“Shiraz,”—despite his fuck-you jolt, I kept one of his hands trapped in both of mine—“I love you. I do. But I can’t—sheez, we just can’t—” Lightbulbs flared in my brain. A whole bank of them, forming one word. “Ambyr.” I let his hand drop. “This is the part you reserved for Ambyr, remember?”
“Fuck.” He shot off the bed like an F-18 launched off a battle carrier. Glared at me with rocket-hot eyes. “This is the part, dammit, where I remind you what I said earlier.”
I forced in a forbearing breath. “That you’re not proposing to her.”
With a hand in his hair, he exhaled. “Yes.”
“Not tonight.”
“Not ever.”
