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“Or because I like you. Did you consider that?”

“You like me,” I repeat, beaming up at him.

He makes an exasperated noise. “Why is that better than being my fated one?”

“Because youuuu.” I poke him in the chest. “Like me. Not fate. You.”

“Yer driving me crazy lass, but aye, I do like you quite a bit.”

I wink at him, because why not? He’s going to have to put up with my ass for a long, long time. Might as well be my obnoxious self.

Thirty-Three

LACHLAN

Her sneakers squeak on the parquet, the sound ridiculously loud in the quiet of the library.

She’s talking fast. Too fast.

"So, what’s the protocol here? Do we need lighter fluid? Duraflame logs? A couple of my student loan forbearance notices? Because God knows those burn with the fury of a thousand suns, and I’ve got a whole stack back in my apartment."

I don't answer right away. I just watch her.

She’s pacing the edge of the hearthstone, rolling her shoulders back like a prizefighter stepping into a ring in a black sweater and a messy bun held together by, of all things, a pen. But her scent gives her away. Underneath the sweet, intoxicating heather and sex that’s settled into my skin, there’s a sharp, metallic bite of lemon and cold copper.

Fear. Pure terror.

She’s terrified that this stone is going to finish what Julian’s poisoned cup started. She’s terrified her head is going to split open, that the unmaking will turn her into another ghost haunting this estate, and because she’s Vivienne, she’s burying that terror under layers of weaponized nonsense.

Gods, I love her. It makes my ribs ache.

"No kindling, lass," I say, stepping into her path and catching her by the elbows to stop her pacing.

She looks up, her brown eyes wide, pupils slightly dilated. She tries on an easy smirk, but the corner of her lower lip gives a tiny, nervous quiver.

"Are you sure?" she asks, tilting her chin up. "Because I also brought a lot of spite. I could set fire to an entire zip code on spite alone."

"I don't doubt that for a second," I rumble. I slide my hands down her arms, my rough palms brushing over her sweater until my fingers lace through hers. "No matches. No spite. Just marrow and will. But you don't take a single step onto that slate alone."

Her gaze drops to our joined hands. The living Celtic knot around her wrist pulses, faint threads of cyan and gold smoke drifting across her pale skin.

"Do I cut myself again?" she asks, her voice dropping, losing just a fraction of that frantic bravado. "Because between the corkscrew, the enchanted daggers, and our blood oath, I am rapidly running out of un-punctured flesh. I'm gonna look like a pincushion."

"No cutting," I tell her firmly. I squeeze her fingers, letting the furnace heat of my blood seep into hers. "Your blood claimed the key. Now you're telling the house who owns the ground it stands on. But you remember what the Duchess wrote?"

"Keep the bear close," she mutters, rolling her eyes, though she doesn't pull away. "A mated stone doesn't crack under the rush. You're an industrial surge protector."

"I don't know what the fuck that means, but aye. You pull the unmaking into your mortal frame without an anchor, and that magic will boil you alive before you finish the sentence." I lean down, forcing her to look me dead in the eye until she stops fidgeting. "You hold onto me, Vivienne. No matter how hot it gets. No matter how loud the house screams. You do not let go of my hand."

Her throat bobs as she swallows. The sarcasm strips away for half a second, leaving the raw, stubborn grit that drew me to her in the Council room.

"I won't let go," she whispers.

"Good. On my mark."

We step onto the hearthstone together.

The moment her rubber soles hit the dark slate, the library dies.