"How long were you married?"
"Twelve years." The words came out flat. "Twelve years of not knowing which feelings were mine and which ones she'd planted there. When I finally confronted her, she didn't understand why I was upset. She thought she washelping. Making us happier. More compatible."
Cassie felt something twist in her chest. "That's not help. That's control."
"Aye. Took me a while to see it that way, but that's what it was." He looked at her then, reallylooked at her. "That's why I'm wary. Not because you're magical—because I've learned what happens when someone with magic decides they know what's best for you."
"I'm not her."
"I know." Something in his expression softened. "You're chaotic and impulsive and you set things on fire when you're stressed. But you're not manipulative. You don't hide what you're feeling—your emotions leak all over the bloody house."
The walls had cycled through about four different colors during this conversation, currently settling on a soft rose-gold that was definitelynothelping Cassie's case for emotional control.
"The walls are very chatty," she muttered.
"Aye. Subtle as a brick." He leaned forward slightly. "But that's the thing—you can't hide. Everything you feel is right there. It's actually refreshing after years of never knowing what was real."
"Even when what I'm feeling is inconvenient?"
"Especiallythen."
The walls went properly pink now. Like, undeniably, unmistakably, "Cassie Morgan is having Feelings about the Scottish man in her guest room" pink.
"I hate this house," she announced to the ceiling.
"The house is just being honest."
"The house needs to learn about discretion."
A cabinet in the kitchen groaned sympathetically.
Liam stood, crossing to the window. Cassie tried not to notice how the lamplight caught in his hair, or how the ridiculous "World's Best Dad" shirt somehow made him look more attractive instead of less.
"I should—" she started.
"Cassie."
She looked up.
He was staring at the walls, which had progressed from pink to a warm burgundy. Then he looked at her, and there was something careful in his expression. Something cautious but not cold.
"The binding," he said slowly. "The connection between us. It's making everything... louder. But it's not creating things that aren't there."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean the walls aren't lying."
Her breath caught.
Before she could respond—before she could even process what he'd just admitted—the walls flickered violently. Pink to red to gold to a blazing white-hot crimson.
The temperature in the room spiked. Not a hot flash this time—just magic responding to the sudden surge of emotion between them.
Books trembled on their shelves. The lamp flickered. And somewhere in thekitchen, Jacques the toaster began singing what sounded like a French love song.
"Merde," Cassie whispered.
"That's one word for it."
