I shook my head while Lock’s short, red-cheeked wife, affectionately called Missus, brought over two glasses of spiced wine. Tom’s neck was a temptation I could not resist after my third—or was it fourth—glass of the stuff. The sweet, spicy combination left me feeling warm and languid, and a little sensual. And the outlet for such feelings wasright there.
Murray heaved the log onto the crackling fire. It dimmed under the weight of the addition but slowly, the log caught and began to pop pleasantly.
The staff settled in to watch and play a few rounds of various card games, but I was content to curl up in the chair with the man I loved.
Months ago, the night of the masquerade, we had sat in chairs very much like this one—with several feet between us—and for the first time in my life, I allowed someone to carve a door in the walls that guarded my heart.
Now, we had a home, and a family we were building.
Tom had seen every vulnerable, abrasive, tender part of me, shared his in return, and he loved me. The same way I loved him.
Sorcha made an odd noise on the settee beside us.
When everyone turned to look, she explained, “It’s nothing. Just a cramp.”
Everyone returned to their games and drinks while she rubbed her belly. Laughter mingled with the crisp sparks from the yule log and the clinks of glasses into a lovely symphony.
“Do you want your present?” I whispered in Tom’s ear. He nodded sleepily, polished off his glass, and set it aside.
“Goodnight, everyone,” he called, grabbing my hand and dragging me out of the room to raucous jeers.
Before I knew it, we were in our room with the lock snicking into place. “As much as I approve of where your mind has gone, I did have an actual present to give you.”
“Me too. But also… after…” His blue eyes sparked with mirth. He must have snapped out of whatever languid haze had washed over us downstairs.
“After. Me first?”
At his nod, I bent to retrieve my gift from under the bed, nerves fluttering. I handed him the flat rectangle wrapped in brown paper and tied with a simple red ribbon.
Tom’s expression was one of boyish eagerness even as he carefully, reverently, pulled the ribbon off and pulled the paper away.
It was upside down when he managed to free it, but I heard the catch of his breath when he recognized the familiar shape of a wooden frame wrapped around a stretched canvas.
My cheeks heated as I waited for him to turn it over and when he finally did, I had to look away.
His gasp echoed in the quiet room, hanging there for a moment, two. Then he broke the silence with a ragged, “Xander…”
“Obviously, we cannot display it. But…”
“Are you sure?”
A laugh burst free from my chest, loosening the pressing anxiety. “Yes, it is obscene. And besides, no one else gets the privilege of seeing you that way.”
Tom’s long finger traced over the brown and grey lines I used to capture his form in watercolor. “I look like this?” he breathed.
“Prettier than that—I’m not skilled enough to capture the way your eyes flicker in happiness or the precise curve of your lips when you’re thinking of me.”
“Xander, I—” Reverently, he set the painting on the bed, reached for me, and claimed my lips with his own.
Our breaths were ragged when he broke away. I couldn’t help but chuckle when he rounded the bed and reached under his side.
The box he pulled free was small and rectangular, wrapped haphazardly in the same brown paper I’d used, but he’d tied it with twine.
“Before you open it, I need to explain. This came into my possession on the day we met. I’ve kept it with me for years, guarded it like a treasure, because it reminded me of you. I just wanted you to have it—in case you ever consider giving me theopportunity to leave you again. You should know precisely how desperately I clung to the scraps of you I could gather before you were mine.”
I could do nothing but kiss him for that speech. After I pulled away, I worked on the twine with shaking hands. What I found beneath the paper was somehow entirely surprising and not at all.
It was a delicate gold snuffbox inlaid with agate surrounded by flowers and vines.
