“I hate how much I don’thateher,” I say.
He chuckles and rubs his hands up and down my back. “There’s something I need to tell you. Kind of.”
Slowly, I push off his chest again and sit, looking down on him. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing bad, I promise. Her only interest in me was my connection to the inn.” I let out a breath of relief, but my muscles are still coiled tight. “There’s information about the visit I can’t tell you.”
My eyebrows raise. “She compelled you?”
He nods once.
“Was it about her garden?”
He nods again. This time I can see him forcibly biting back the words. He grows frustrated and shakes his head roughly.
“Shh,” I soothe and run my hands along his skin. “It’s okay, Archer. I trust you. There’s nothing we need from her garden anyway. We have enough everoot for Clover and Clementine, if the illness presents itself.”
He takes a deep breath and pulls me into his chest.
“I’m more confused than ever before, Renata,” he admits. “I believe my death is inevitable.”
In the wake of his confession, I whisper, “I’m scared, Archer.”
We stay like that for a long time—his arms around me while I nuzzle in as close as I can get to him and stare out the window. As the silence drags on, my blood pumps with my churning thoughts.
“I want the bond,” I say suddenly, as soon as I’ve gained the confidence. I don’t want it to flit away just as quickly.
He sits up, pulling me with him. Leaning back on the headboard, Archer opens his mouth, then closes it a few times. There’s less surprise in his expression than I expected, more so concern.
“I want that, Renata. So badly.” He swallows and adds, “I hate knowing what it means for you.”
It means if I were to change my mind—somehow able to live after his death—I doubt I’d be able to survive it. Edmond passed away from a broken heart within a week of Cordelia, and I’d most likely be no different.
What Archer and I share is already deeper, more spiritual, than anything most witches find in their lifetimes.
Throughout the years of abuse from my mother and judgement from my sisters, I have never been suicidal. I never wanted to die—no, I wanted to live. I wanted to be free and to be loved. From the moment I saw Archer’s face and heard the low, husky voice that followed me into my dreams, I knew there was no other choice.
I don’t want to die, but I can’t live without him either.
“It means I’ll find you,” I quietly promise. “Our souls will be connected, so we won’t ever have to be separated as long as we’re on the same plane of existence.”
“You can change your mind,” he says. It’s gentle and affectionate, but the heartbreak is dripping off his tongue. “You can decide to live and find me in a few decades. Hell, it could be a century, and I’d still be waiting if it meant you got to live.”
Shaking my head, I brush my lips against his. “I want to be with you, wherever that is.”
He runs a hand up to the back of my head and kisses me like it’s the last time he’ll have the chance to.
“We’ll make the bond this week,” he says with resolution. “I’ll talk to Gale about the… easiest way to go about this.”
Nodding, I say, “Okay. We all need to talk about yesterday, and Calista. But I don’t want to tell them about the bond.”
“I agree. I don’t want to get Sybil’s hopes up.”
I don’t want to cause false hope for anyone in the coven. They may never understand why I’m doing this, knowing Archer will soon be in the afterlife.
When there aren’t any more words to say, we lose ourselves in each other’s bodies for a few hours. The soft touches and slow kisses light a fire between our souls. It’s not rushed or frantic. Each touch is intentional—a thousand promises of what’s to come, and silent comfort of what we still have to lose.
We spend one more night pretending that the fates aren’t waiting for us tomorrow.
