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“It’s different for every pair on record. A century past a human lifespan, in the strongest ones. Nobody knows exactly.”
She was quiet for a moment. Then: “Is there other information you’ve been holding?”
“The claim is felt.” He kept his voice level. “You’d know where I was. Not precisely — not like tracking — but a general sense of direction and state. You’d know if I’m all right. And I’d know the same for you. The founding-line connection to the wards, too. The old records say the claim makes them stronger. The wards would have a steadier anchor.”
She was quiet. He let the quiet be.
“Three questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“One. Does it hurt?”
“Yes. Briefly.”
“Two. Can you feel the wound on my left side through the ward connection?”
“Yes.”
“Three.” She turned to look at him fully. The tide pools still glowed, and the moonlight did what it did on this stretch of beach. She had sea salt in her hair and a bandage on her ribs, and she’d clearly decided, with no intention of pretending otherwise. “Has it been driving you insane?”
He looked at her for a moment.
“Yes.”
“Good.” She turned back toward him, drawing one knee up onto the rock. “Okay. Here’s the thing. I came to this town three months ago with two suitcases and magical arson, and I have been catastrophically wrong about almost everything that would happen to me here. I was wrong about the fire. I was wrong about whether I had any business being in Spelltide Cove. And I was wrong,” she said, “about whether it was a good idea to be invested in a man who is six foot four, runs toward Rift breaches, has more emotional control than any human being I have ever encountered, and, apparently, also makes eggs at two in the morning because he cannot sleep either.”
His wolf had gone quiet.
“I want this. Not because of the biology. Not because it’s been three months and the bond has been running, and I don’t know the difference anymore.” She met his gaze. “I know the difference. I choose this because of you. The radio-restoring, terrible-at-mornings, emotionally constipated, reliably present version of you. I choose that.”
He had believed her from the beginning when she told him who she was. He had believed her when she said she wasn’t ready. He believed her now.
He reached up and tucked a strand of hair back from her face — an easy gesture, nothing asked of it. Her eyes followed him with the same helpless attention as always, the kind she tried and failed to hide.
“Althea.”
“Don’t get serious on me now, you’ll ruin my whole speech.”
“I’m always serious.”
“I know. It’s a problem I’ve decided to accept.” She leaned into him, her shoulder against his chest, and looked at the water. “Ask me properly.”
He turned so his mouth was at her temple. She went still.
“Choose this.” Low and direct. Not a question. A door held open.
She turned her face to his.
“Yes. Obviously yes.”
The tide pools glowed brighter as the temperature between them shifted.
His hands were unhurried. He’d been managing the distance between what he wanted and what he allowed himself for three months, and that management was over, and she knew it — he could tell she knew it from the way her breath changed when he pulled her closer, the way her hands found him with clear intent — she’d been managing the same distance too.
She was warm and real and here, and she smelled like the sea and the ward lines and herself, and she made a sound when his mouth found her throat that he intended to hear again.
“Your side,” he said, against her skin.
