What have I done?
I am disgusted.
I am disgusting.
“I’m sorry,” I croak even though he’s partly to blame. After all, if he hadn’t pinned me to his lap . . .
If he hadn’t moved his leg . . .
“Fallon, look at me.” He pushes a strand of hair off my cheek, tucking it behind my ear.
My lids remain sealed because I cannot look at this man I used as a scratching post. Keeping my eyes shut, I push against his chest, but my body feels like an overcooked noodle. My elbows collapse on themselves until the rest of me sags as miserably as my mood.
“Let me go, Lore.”
“Not until you look at me.”
When I feel his cool fingers chase the tears on my cheeks, I swivel my head to remove it from his reach. “I don’t want to look at you.” If I look at him, it’ll make all of this real.
He sighs. “Fine. Don’t look at me; but listen to me.”
“Don’t try to tell me that what just happened between us isn’t wrong because we’re magically bound to one another. You’re married—or about to be—and although you may not have sworn a vow of chastity to Alyora, I will not—I will not desecrate your future union.”
“Just her name then?”
My eyes pop open. “What?”
“It’s Alyona. Not Alyosha. Not Alyora.”
I growl at the fact that he is choosing to focus on spelling instead of on what we’ve done.
He drags his blunt nails down the slope of my neck. “Fallon, I’m not sure why you think I’ve married the Glacin princess, but I’ve not wed her, nor do I ever intend to.”
I side-eye him, eyebrows bending. “Aoife said you were finalizing your alliance.”
“My alliance with her father. I never intended nor suggested marrying Alyona. Vladimir assumed I’d want to because that’s how Faeries establish alliances.”
“But Dante said—”
“Again, an assumption.”
My mouth gapes. “But you let me believe it!”
“Only because I thought it was helping you come to terms with the fact that rejecting one’s mate is physically and emotionally impossible.”
The hinges of my jaw creak open some more.
He presses another wet strand of hair off my face. “Unless I become a forever-Crow, I’m afraid you will be stuck with me eternally,mo khrá.”
Mo kraw. . . I assume it meansmy crow. Since Lore doesn’t correct me, I run with that translation. “So you’renotbetrothed or wed?”
“No.”
I catch the strong bangs of his heart in my palm. “You were never betrothed?”
“Not even for a minute.”
“You, asshole.” I slug his shoulder, injuring my knuckles on the ridiculous knot of muscle and bone. “I cannot believe you let me run with it.”
