“You’re everyone’s tyrant,” Clara says with a grin. “I’ll manage. Go celebrate your new year.”
“Thisisthe celebration,” I tell her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We brought you home.”
She softens at that, then yawns. “Alright. Brief nap. But if I wake up and you’ve put an old lady shawl on me, I will become homicidal.”
We help her lower back onto the pillows. She tries to argue until sleep comes in like a tide and carries her off. It’s honest sleep, the kind you get when the body finally believes it’s safe. Her face relaxes. Her hands stop making fists. I stand there three extra beats just to watch it happen.
The new year’s sun warms the parquet in stripes. I can taste rosemary in the air. A new calendar hangs on the wall, brand-new squares waiting to be filled in with ordinary everyday miracles, one of them happening in eight months or so.
We walk Alex to the front door. I can almost hear his thoughts, heavy and private. He turns the knob, then stops.
“She’ll be fine,” I say.
He nods, eyes looking off toward Clara’s door. “I know.”
“She’ll also try to fire her nurse within twelve hours,” Damien says, deadpan. “But we will not allow it.”
Another nod. He clears his throat. “I’ll swing by tomorrow morning.” He looks at me as if asking for approval, then thinks better of it. I save him the trouble.
“She’ll like that,” I tell him. “So will I.”
“Hell, make it tonight,” Damien says. “Ring in the new year with actual people.”
“Actualfriends,” I correct.
“I’d like that.”
He manages a smile and puts his hand on Damien’s shoulder. They don’t say anything out loud, but I know they’re communicating—something about debts and brothers and the new year we almost didn’t get. Then Alex pulls on his coat and steps out into the cold, heading down the walk with his hands in his pockets, shoulders square against the wind.
I close the door and turn to find Damien looking at me like a man starved. The grin starts slow, wicked and warm, lifting one corner of his mouth before it takes the other. He’s been good—gentle, careful, occupied with medical orders and house staff, but I know that look all too well.
“Oh no, I know what that face means,” I say, trying to sound stern and failing miserably.
He steps closer, wraps his good arm around my waist, and breathes me in. “Now that I’ve finally got you all to myself,” he says, “it’s time to christenourbedroom. You’re not in the east suite anymore.”
“Christen?” I question playfully.
“Consecrate,” he amends, smile going feral. “Dedicate. Choose your sacrament.”
“Clara’s asleep,” I remind him.
“And she’ll stay sleeping.” His mouth brushes my temple. “It’s New Year’s. We need a good prelude for the year ahead.”
I tug his shirt gently away from the bandage. “Stitches,” I remind him. “You’re not immortal.”
“Not yet,” he says. “But I plan to live a very long time, and it starts upstairs.”
I try to tame my smile, but it disobeys. The year outside is bright, cold, and brand-new. My sister is sleeping safely in a sunlit room. And the man I love is alive and grinning like sin. I take his hand.
“Fine,” I say. “But quietly.”
He laughs, low and pleased. We walk hand in hand through the warm light of the hall toward the stairs.
CHAPTER 47
CASSANDRA
My heart’s racing as we climb the staircase, Damien’s hand warm in mine. His grin—wicked, hot, and all mine—pulls me like gravity. Clara’s safe, sleeping soundly downstairs, the world outside a whisper of snow and pale blue sky.
