“Because if he did, he’d have been home the first night you returned.”
I press my lips together. He burns. He rages. He shatters mountains when he’s inconvenienced. If he feels this hollow ache... My chest tightens sharply, and Hart’s arm tightens in response.
“You’re reaching,” he says.
I glare at my hands, checking they haven’t taken matters into their own... hands? Do hands have hands? Nope, all good. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re reaching for him.”
I freeze. “I’m not.”
“You are.”
I don’t mean to. I don’t know how to stop.
Power burns through the air, raising the hair on my arms. The lake surface trembles from beneath the still waters, rippling the surface into frothy waves.
Hart’s voice lowers. “Daphne.”
I force myself to inhale. Slow. In. Out.
The tremor settles.
“It wasn’t me,” I whisper.
“You know differently.”
“I was thinking.”
“You were reaching,” he repeats.
I swallow. “I don’t know how not to,” I whisper.
“I know.”
We sit like that for a while. The fire dies down while the night grows deeper, and with it, my determination to not feel this way a tempo longer than necessary.
Chapter Fifteen
Daphne
Iwake to the distinct sensation of being observed. Not romantically, but more like anI can’t look away from the chaotic maidenkind of way. They, whoever they are, are passing their unsolicited opinions on me.
I crack one eye open to find seven beards. That’s new. The varying lengths display a range of braiding techniques, and one even has a decorative pinecone woven in for flair.
“Well,” I murmur into my Hart-shaped pillow, “this is either a cult, or I’ve died again.”
They don’t laugh. Tough crowd.
His arms tighten around me. “Not the pink.”
My lips twitch. What pink disaster is my knight dreaming of? I nudge him awake with my shoulder. The sky is growing lighter, so we must have slept the night away.
“Am I still dreaming?” he grumbles. “Because this has taken a turn for the worse.”
Glad to know the pink whatever it is trumps the seven beards.
“Not dreaming,” I reassure him.
