It was also wounding him.
And if he didn’t fix it, it was going to kill them.
“No, what’s happening is, I’m falling in love with you.”
He thought that would work.
It didn’t.
He knew it when she returned, “You don’t even know me.”
“I know ye, Blake.”
“Really?” she asked and pointed toward the sitting room.
Fuck, he’d fucked up.
Before he could say more, with a vicious wrench, she pulled free.
He got tangled up in his dog, who again didn’t know who to be with, so Blake was out the door before he could catch her.
As gently as he could in his state, he pressed his dog back and sprinted after her, out the door, down the walk, seeing her giving her bag over to the driver who had the trunk open.
She hustled to the side door of the car and was standing in it, head aimed down, when he caught her with both hands.
“Dinnae do this, darling,” he begged.
She lifted her head and gutted him with her expression.
No.
He hadn’t wounded her.
He’d destroyed her.
“Thank you,” she said so softly, he almost didn’t hear her.
Then she lifted a hand to his cheek, and he closed his eyes momentarily at the feel of it.
He opened them when she spoke again.
“Thank you for letting me pretend I was someone I’m not, even for a little while.”
Christ almighty.
He’d entirely fucked this.
“Please dinnae do this, baby. I fucked up. Let’s work through it.”
She sniffed, swallowed, and swept her thumb over his lips, a miniscule, wretched smile on hers before she whispered, “It was beautiful.”
The force of that blow was so substantial, he was still recovering from it as Blake slipped from his hold, folded into the car and pulled the door to with such force, he (and Sorcha, who’d followed him) had to jump out of the way.
He heard her lock it.
His woman had just literally slipped through his fingers.
And he’d not only allowed it, he was the one who made her do it.
