Where You Go

Lou

He collapsed on the rooftop a few moments later, white-faced and panting, his eyes shut tight against the open sky. I poked him in the ribs. “You’re missing the view.”

He clenched his jaw and swallowed as if about to be sick. “Give me a minute.”

“You do realize how ironic this is, right? The tallest man in Cesarine is afraid of heights!”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”

I lifted one of his eyelids and grinned at him. “Just open your eyes. I promise you won’t regret it.”

His mouth tightened, but he opened his eyes grudgingly. They widened when he saw the sweeping expanse of stars before us.

I hugged my knees to my chest and gazed up at them with longing. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

Soleil et Lune was the tallest building in Cesarine, and it offered the only unimpeded view of the sky in the entire city. Above the smoke. Above the smell. The whole of the heavens stretched out in one great panorama of obsidian and diamond. Infinite. Eternal.

There was only one other place with a view like this . . . and I would never visit the Chateau again.

“They are,” Reid agreed quietly.

I sighed and held myself tighter against the chill. “I like to think God paints the sky just for me on nights like this.”

He tore his gaze from the stars in disbelief. “You believe in God?”

What a complicated question.

I propped my chin on my knees, still peering upward. “I think so.”

He sat up. “But you rarely attend Mass. You—you celebrate Yule, not Noël.”

I shrugged and picked at a bit of dead leaf in the snow. It crinkled beneath my fingers. “I never said it was your god. Your god hates women. We were an afterthought.”

“That isn’t true.”

I finally turned to face him. “Isn’t it? I read your Bible. As your wife, am I not considered your property? Do you not have the legal right to do whatever you please with me?” I grimaced, the memory of the Archbishop’s words leaving a bitter taste in my mouth. “To lock me in the closet and never think of me again?”

“I’ve never considered you my property.”

“The Archbishop does.”

“The Archbishop is . . . mistaken.”

My brows shot up. “Doth mine ears deceive me, or did you just speak ill of your precious patriarch?”

Reid raked a hand through his coppery hair in frustration. “Just—don’t, Lou. Please. Despite what you think, he’s given me everything. He gave me a life, a purpose.” He hesitated, eyes meeting mine with a sincerity that made my heart stutter. “He gave me you.”

I brushed the broken leaf aside and turned to look at him. To really look at him.

Reid truly believed his purpose was to kill witches. He believed the Archbishop had given him a gift, that the Archbishop was good. I reached for his hand. “The Archbishop didn’t give me to you, Reid.” I looked up to the sky with a small smile. “He did—or she.”

There was a heavy pause as we stared at one another.

“I have a present for you.” He leaned closer, blue eyes boring into my very soul. I held my breath, willing him to close the distance between our lips.

“Another one? But it’s not Yule yet.”

“I know.” He looked down at our hands, sweeping a thumb across my ring finger. “It’s . . . it’s a wedding ring.”

I gasped as he withdrew it from his coat pocket. Thin, beaten gold made up the band, and an oval mother-of-pearl stone sat at the center. It was clearly very old. It was also the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. My heart pounded wildly as he held it out to me.

“May I?”

I nodded, and he slid Angelica’s Ring off my finger and slipped his on instead. We both stared at it for a moment. He swallowed hard.

“It was my mother’s . . . or at least, I think it was. It was clenched in my fist when they found me.” He hesitated, eyes meeting mine. “It reminds me of the sea . . . of you. I’ve wanted to give it to you for days now.”

I opened my mouth to say something—to tell him how lovely it was or how honored I’d be to wear something so meaningful, to carry that little piece of him with me always—but the words caught in my throat. He watched me raptly.

“Thank you.” My throat bobbed as an unfamiliar emotion threatened to choke me. “I . . . love it.”

And I did. I did love it.

But not as much as I loved him.

He wrapped his arms around my waist, and I leaned back into his chest, trembling at the realization.

I loved him.

Shit. I loved him.

My breathing grew more painful the longer I sat there—each breath jarring and stoking all at once. Hyperventilating. That’s what I was doing. I needed to get it together. I needed to collect my thoughts—

Reid gently pulled my hair aside, and the small touch nearly undid me. His lips brushed the curve of my neck. Blood roared in my ears.

“‘Do not urge me to leave you or turn back from you.’” He trailed his fingers down my arm in slow, torturous strokes. My head fell back on his shoulder, my eyes fluttering closed, as his lips continued to move against my neck. “‘Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay.’”

A low, breathless sound escaped the back of my throat—so at odds with the reverent words he’d spoken. His fingers stilled instantly, and his gaze honed in on my rapidly moving chest.

“Don’t stop,” I breathed. Pleaded.

His body tensed, and his hands clamped down on my arms in an unyielding grip. “Ask me, Lou.” His voice turned low, urgent. Raw. Heat pooled directly in my belly at the sound of it.

My mouth opened. The time for games was done. He was my husband, and I was his wife. It was foolish to pretend I no longer wanted the relationship. To pretend I didn’t crave his attention, his laughter, his . . . touch.

I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to become my husband in every sense of the word. I wanted him—

I wanted him.

All of him. We could make it work. We could write our own ending, witch and witch hunter be damned. We could be happy.

“Touch me, Reid.” To my surprise, the words came out steady despite my breathlessness. “Please. Touch me.”

He grinned—slow and triumphant—against my neck. “That’s not a question, Lou.”

My eyes snapped open, and I turned to scowl at him. He raised a brow in question, pressing his lips to my skin. His eyes locked with mine. Lips parting, he trailed warm, open-mouthed kisses down the side of my throat and onto my shoulder.

His tongue moved slowly, worshiping me with each stroke, and I practically combusted.

“Fine.” My traitorous neck extended under his mouth, but my pride refused to succumb so easily. If he wanted to play one more game, I would oblige him—and I would win. “Would you, oh brave and virtuous Chasseur, stick your tongue down my throat and your hands up my skirt? My ass needs grabbing.”

He spluttered and reared back incredulously. I arched against him, grinning despite myself. “Too much?”

When he didn’t respond, disappointment trickled through the fire in my blood. I turned to face him fully. His eyes were wide, and—to my chagrin—his face was pale. He didn’t look like he wanted to ravish me, after all. Perhaps I’d overplayed my hand.