Or he could do what he really wanted, which was fall to his knees at her feet and beg her to forgive him for abandoning Val. For abandoning her. But he didn’t deserve her forgiveness. He didn’t deserve her at all.
He had gone to check on her in the night, long enough to see that she was completely passed out each time, sleeping the deep sleep of shock and physical exhaustion. And then he had turned away, filling the long hours with everything he could think of to keep her safe. To keep Val safe. And to avoid them both.
Now he stayed where he was, waiting for her judgment.
She walked slowly away from the house, toward the mill, head down. He wished he could see her face, have some idea of what she was thinking. But he couldn’t. He could only watch from above, chest aching.
She paused at the bottom of the mill, assessing. And then surprised him by unfurling her wings and launching straight up into the air.
Gods, she was so beautiful, strong and powerful as she sailed smoothly through the air. Yet still so delicate and vulnerable, almost lost inside too-big men’s clothes, no boots, dark rings circling her eyes.
He reached out a hand to catch her as she landed on the ancient thatch and left it circling her waist for just a moment too long before letting it fall slowly away.
Being next to her was torture. The overwhelming conflict between wanting to wrap himself around her and wanting to get far away from her before she could say the words that finished whatever they’d had between them was killing him.
He was desperate to step back and give himself some space, but he didn’t want to leave her standing on the roof without support. She was tired, and the roof was old and slippery.
“I have wings,” she said softly.
He raised an eyebrow. He had no idea what she was talking about.
“If I fall, I’ll just fly down.”
He grunted, not knowing how to reply. She was right. She could fly. And he should step back. And he would. Very soon.
“Show me your hands,” she demanded in her low, slightly husky voice.
This conversation was not going as he’d expected, in any way. But he couldn’t say no to her. He lifted his hands slowly, fingers pointing up, palms toward her, surrendering.
She stretched out and gently laced her slim fingers between his, her hands warm and soft against his, locking him in place in front of her. Trapping him. Now he couldn’t step back, despite needing to even more desperately.
He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at her. That serious look on her face. So sad and tired. And so determined.
And then opened them again immediately when he felt a soft warmth against his fingertips. She had leaned forward to kiss them.
He shuddered helplessly, falling into the blissful absence of pain. The dull throbbing in his hands that he had simply ignored for so many hours was gone.
He twisted his hands gently, still intertwined with hers, and saw that the brutal claws had finally retracted. Leaving bruises and dried blood, but, thank the gods, his own normal hands.
She leaned her smooth forehead against their clasped hands. “I came to say I’m sorry.”
“What?” Fuck. He felt like a caveman. He literally had a one-word vocabulary. And he hadn’t meant to grumble at her. But nothing was making any sense.
“I’m sorry for how I reacted when I saw Tor.”
How was this something they were even talking about? “You had every right—”
“No.” Her smooth cheek rubbed against his fingers as she shook her head. “I didn’t. I knew you would come back for me, and when you did… well, I reacted badly, and I’m sorry.”
He couldn’t get his head around what she was saying. “You knew I’d come back?” Was it even possible after how she’d looked at him? Called for him?
“Of course.”
“You didn’t think I betrayed you?”
“Well. Maybe for a moment.” She gave him a rueful look, eyes soft and shining. “It was very hard to see you standing there, just letting them….” She must have felt how all his muscles clenched, because she paused and gave herself a shake before continuing. “But then I saw your nails.”
“My nails?”
