I wait breathlessly as he pauses and thinks.
“Damn,” Pierce says, running his hand through his hair. “I can’t do it,” he says, looking up at me.
“Do you want me to type that or are you saying that to me?”
“Don’t type that.” He stands and crosses the room to the bar.
God, he’s handsome. You should just see him right now. He got too hot while he was pacing and dictating so he’s now barefoot with his linen pants rolled up a bit and his shirt is unbuttoned. Yum. Too bad I’m never going to see him again after tomorrow. A pang hits my chest and I blink quickly, forcing myself to look out the window at the moonlit ocean view instead of at his perfection. That moon will still be here. So will the sea. I may not care that they’re there, but at least it’s something to cling to…
“Ah, shit,” he says, sucking back a quick shot of whiskey. “I know what I have to do but I can’t.
“Don’t tell me…”
Pierce lets out a frustrated chuckle. “I just realized why I have stalled for two years on finishing this. I’m nothing more than a sentimental idiot.”
He stares at me with a grave expression. “He must die. It’s the only way for the House of Dalgaeron to survive.”
“Not true. You’re the author of his fate. You get to decide, don’t you?” I stand, suddenly wanting some booze myself. “Can’t Luc live, then go rescue Oona, and they rule the kingdom with their cute little heir…maybe pop out a few spares while they’re at it?”
Pierce shakes his head as he pours me a glass. “If he survives, his son can’t. There can only be one heir the morning after the endless night. That’s the prophecy.”
“That’s the prophecy.” I sigh, then take a swig of the whiskey and feel it slide over my tongue and burn the back of my throat. Swatting him on the arm, I say, “Why’d you have to write that stupid prophecy, anyway?”
“Apparently, I’m a sadist,” he says. “Okay, let’s do this.”
* * *
It’s after two a.m. when Pierce hits the send button. We’re sitting side-by-side on the couch with the French doors open to let in the air. The breeze causes the white sheers to billow as he sits back and lets out a long sigh. We’re both wrung out. I’ve used a box of tissues and am still doing that hiccupping breathing thing you do after an enormous cry. Other than when I lost my parents, I can’t remember a time when I’ve felt so raw.
“Are you all right, Emma?” he asks, resting his hand on my knee. His eyes are red too, and even though he hasn’t bawled like a baby (or like me, for that matter), he’s exhausted in a way that I’ve rarely known myself.
I nod, sniffling. “It’s just…so bittersweet.” My face crinkles up again and my eyes fill with tears.
Pierce puts his arm around me and pulls me onto his lap, where I curl up and bury my face into his neck. Kissing me on the temple, he says, “It’s over. I’m in shock.”
I sit up and nod a little. “I bet. You’ve spent years of your life on this.”
“Eight years of thinking, writing, rewriting, dreaming, and fighting with myself over it,” he says, staring out the window. “And with two little words, it’s over. The End.”
“Maybe that’s why you got stuck for so long,” I say, cupping his face with my hand. “Maybe you didn’t want to say goodbye to them.”
“Apparently getting attached to fictional characters is as ill-advised as attaching oneself to real humans,” he says, chuckling softly.
“Worse, even,” I say, laying my head on his shoulder.
I’m pretty sure we’re both thinking about the next hard moment we’d both like to avoid. Closing my eyes, I nuzzle his neck with my nose, then feel both of us moving so that our mouths find each other. His mouth is warm and comforting. He tastes like whiskey and feels like exactly what I need right now to make everything okay again.
I turn so I’m straddling his lap and soon our clothes are off and we’re comforting the hell out of each other on the tile floor. And there’s something different this time. It’s honest. We’re in this together and there’s no hiding from each other. This feels like the real thing. Our eyes stay locked on each other as he moves over me and there’s a story we’re writing together with just this look. It’s the story of us. It’s deep and filled with everything we need to be happy and whole.
When it’s over, we lay together on the floor, panting and kissing, not wanting this moment to end.
“You must be exhausted,” I say finally.
“I am, but I don’t want to sleep. I don’t want to miss a second of being able to look at you.”
We kiss again, our tongues saying what we can’t with words. After a few minutes, I pull back. “Let’s stay up then. Until you get on the plane.”
He grins and shakes his head a little. “You’re magnificent, you know that?”
