When did that happen? When did his wellbeing become more important to me than my own survival? Surviving at any cost is the foundation of my identity. It is who I am. Why the hell am I suddenly factoring in someone else? It doesn’t make sense.
Jack is pleasing on the eye, and pleasing in bed. But that’s not enough to change every single thing about me. What the hell is happening to me?
“Dyfri?” Jack’s voice is gentle. “Are you alright?”
I blink, realising I’ve been staring at him for far too long. “Fine. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“About how much our execution is going to hurt if we’re caught.”
Jack’s smile is rueful. “Probably a lot. But we’re going to do it anyway, aren’t we? Side by side.”
“Yes,” I say, and the certainty in my voice surprises even me. “We are.”
“Good.” Jack reaches for my hand, threading our fingers together with a casual intimacy that makes my heart skip. “Because I’ve been thinking about what you said yesterday. And I have some ideas.”
As he begins outlining his thoughts, his face animated with passion and intelligence, I find myself watching the play of expressions across his features. The way his eyes light up when he’s excited about something. The way he gestures with his free hand while keeping hold of mine with the other.
Selwyn was right. I am soft for him. Terrifyingly, completely, undeniably, soft.
And for the first time in my life, I don’t want to run from my feelings.
Chapter fifteen
Jack
The artificial Christmas tree is proving to be more of a challenge than I’d anticipated. It’s barely four in the morning, but I couldn’t sleep, and when I wandered into the living room and saw the box sitting in the corner where I’d hidden it three days ago, I knew what I had to do.
Even if Dad thinks we shouldn’t celebrate Christmas this year. Even if the entire country is under fey occupation and half the population thinks we’re collaborators. Even if my own brain keeps telling me this is ridiculous.
It’s Christmas morning, and by God, we’re going to have a tree.
I’m wrestling with a particularly stubborn branch when I hear soft footsteps behind me.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I turn to find Dyfri standing in the doorway, looking absolutely magnificent in one of his long nightgowns, this one a deep blood-red that makes his skin seem to glow. His hair is mostly loose, tumbling behind his shoulders, the wedding plait visible as a silver thread woven through the dark mass.
“It’s Christmas!” I announce, probably with far too much enthusiasm for four in the morning.
Dyfri blinks slowly. “Christmas?”
“Oh. It’s a human festival...” I start to explain, then catch the slight quirk of his eyebrow. “Right. You probably know that already.”
“I am aware.” His voice is carefully neutral, but there’s something almost amused in his expression. “You wish to celebrate Christmas?”
I nod eagerly, then feel suddenly self-conscious. “I know it’s silly. Dad said we weren’t going to celebrate it this year, what with the occupation and everything. But I woke up, and I just could not pretend it was a normal day. Even with our wedding and everything that’s been going on, Christmas barely crossed my mind until yesterday.”
A shiver of guilt shudders through me, but I ignore it. Dad and Mum are at Chequers, discreetly away for the weekend in the prime minister’s country house. They’ll never know that I’m rebelling and doing Christmas. And neither will the British public. I’m not flashing my wealth and stability while people are scared and struggling. It’s just me and my husband, alone in our flat.
Dyfri moves closer, studying the half-assembled tree with the same intense focus he uses for political negotiations.
“And this requires... construction?”
“It’s an artificial tree. Much easier than trying to get a real one with all the restrictions on movement.” I gesture helplessly at the pile of green plastic branches. “Though I’m starting to think ‘easier’ might be relative.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to point out how ridiculous this all is. How we have more important things to worry about than decorating fake trees. How Christmasis a frivolous human custom that serves no practical purpose.
