"Malcolm confirmed what you already told everyone," he says, his tone even and low. "The clip's a deepfake, without a single doubt. It may be too late to convince the press or hold weight in the court of public opinion, but it's enough to prove it to your mother."
Relief floods through me, even though I already knew the video was fake. Having technical proof to bring to my mother is a small victory, but a victory nonetheless. But underneath that relief, frustration simmers. Of course, it's not enough to clear my name publicly. I fear nothing ever will be.
"That's something, at least," I manage, though my voice sounds hollow even to my own ears.
“There’s more. I think someone planted a tracker in your phone,” Darhg continues, his amber eyes steady as he speaks. "I gave it to Malcolm. If there's a tracker in it, he'll find it."
I feel a cold hand furrow in my guts as I nod my understanding. He’s right, of course. There’s just no explanation for Gribble Nix showing up in such a small town as Saltford Bay, looking for me. Thing is, I don’t leave my phone unattended often. This means someone close to me did it. The violation of it makes my skin crawl, but underneath that immediate revulsion is something worse, the certainty that whoever did this is someone I trust.
Darhg's posture shifts, his hand resting on my knee squeezing just a little.
“There’s more, isn’t there?”
He nods, then his gaze goes from me to somewhere out the window. Somewhere far, far away.
"I went to see my father."
The words hang in the air between us, weighted with significance. I reach out, my small hand covering his. I stay silent, giving him time to tell me what he wants to tell me.
He describes driving to Farmouth's house, the squalor that greeted him there.
“I don’t know why I went there.” Darhg shakes his head. “Maybe I needed to see him to understand.”
He falls silent, looking down at his hands like he expects to see something else. Or the hands of someone else.
“To understand what, Darhg?” I gently probe.
“That I was never like him.” He shakes his head, still looking at his hands, his fingers flexing open and closed. “That whatever he had in him that made him act like that, it never had anything to do with me. He’s the only one who is guilty.”
I listen without interrupting, my thumb rubbing slow circles on his knuckles where his hand still rests on my knee. My chest aches and eases simultaneously as he describes seeing his father clearly at last. Not the strong, protective figure a father should be, but something much smaller and more pathetic. Weak enough to cut others down to feel tall.
Darhg looks back at me, his gaze direct and clear. The corner of his lips lifts in a faint, crooked smile that makes me want to cover his entire face with kisses.
"I know I'm not him," he says finally, his voice carrying a wonder that suggests this certainty is new. "I guess I needed to see it to believe it."
The words Jennifer spoke this afternoon echo in my mind:Fear of a thing is not the thing itself.
"You’re a good man, Darhg Rooke," I tell him, letting all my conviction ring in my voice. "You’re strong and true. You are a man worth trusting."
His small, almost surprised exhale makes something warm and expansive bloom in my chest.
"I know.” He nods, but it feels like it’s more to himself than to me. “At least, now I do."
Then he does something that stops my world completely. He lifts my hand to his mouth and kisses the inside of my wrist, his lips warm against my pulse point, his tusks pressing against the soft flesh. When he looks at me again, his amber eyes are blazing with that vivid red that stirs an instant stab of lust low in my guts.
"I love you," he says, voice low and certain.
The words land like something that was always meant to be, fear loosening, replaced by the warm, expansive certainty Jennifer described. But he's not done.
He holds my gaze, unflinching. "You're it for me. You are my mate. You are the center of my life. I will not let anything bad happen to you, and I will spend my life making you happy. If you let me."
The declaration should terrify me. I've spent my entire life feeling suffocated by other people's expectations, other people's needs. But this doesn't feel like a cage. This feels like coming home.
“I love you, too.” I laugh, bright and shaky with relief and joy and a dozen other emotions I can't name. "Now shut up and kiss me."
He obliges immediately, his mouth claiming mine with a thoroughness that makes my knees weak. The kiss deepens until the room narrows to nothing but breath and heat and the solid warmth of his arms around me.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, he hooks his arm under my knees and lifts me effortlessly. I loop my arms around his neck, smiling into another kiss as he turns toward the hallway.
