His actions the night before had proven his words true. While others had railed and ranted, Murphy had remained calm. In the face of a situation that would have spurred panic and violence in him when he was young, he’d proposed conversation and clarity.

And while he was still presumptuous, Anne found that she couldn’t fault him for it when he told the truth.

She was his mate.

Sometimes she didn’t like him much. Sometimes he pushed her buttons a little too far.

But oh, how she loved him.

The only remaining question was, did she want him more than the life she’d established? More than her patients? More than her home?

Who in there knows you? Knows you really?

No one.

But Murphy did. Josie did. Brigid and Carwyn did.

She still cared for her immortal patients. But… she didn’t care for them more than she loved the man beside her.

Patrick Murphy had grown into a responsible leader. Respected. Admired for qualities beyond his bravado or brute strength. He’d done all that on his own, and she found herself fiercely proud of him.

He’d broken her trust, and she’d abandoned him. They had both made mistakes. Maybe Murphy’s were more obvious, but she wasn’t perfect either.

Part of her wished she had fought harder for him, but part of her also realized that losing her might have been the thing that drove him to become the man he was. He could still be rash. He still fought his temper and his demons, as she did. But he had also learned care and patience. He had taken control of a city and made it a thriving, safe place. He sacrificed for his people.

Anne had loved the man he’d been, but she loved and admired the man he’d become.

She opened her eyes and twisted so that she was facing him. His skin was cool to the touch, as hers was. She took a deliberate breath and let her amnis run faster, heating her body to warm them both. It was a little thing, but she liked the idea of Murphy waking to warmth. She knew there had been many human years when that hadn’t been the case.

Anne hummed a low tune as she brushed the hair out of his eyes and smoothed it back from his forehead. She closed her eyes and let herself revel in the feel of his blood waking within her.

Such powerful amnis.

Much was made of the strength of older immortals, and it was true that they had far more control. But the vigor of youth couldn’t be forgotten. She felt Murphy’s leg twitch against hers, and his amnis, which had been washing gently over her as he rested, rushed back to his body as he began to wake.

She whispered the words to a song he loved as he woke. Murphy sucked in a deep breath as he always did when the sun set, but instead of sitting up or rolling over, he stayed exactly where he was, watching her with lidded eyes as she sang him awake.

The wonder in his eyes put to rest any lingering doubts that had plagued her.

She belonged with him.

“What were you thinking about?” he asked. “Before I woke. What made you sing that song?”

“I knew you loved it.”

“I do.”

Anne smiled. “That’s all. I know you love that song, so I sang it for you.”

“And what thing can I do for you, Anne Margaret O’Dea”—gentle fingers began to play at the small of her back—“to repay you for the gift of that song? I may have fine houses and a fleet of ships, but I don’t think I own its equal.”

She smiled. “There is one thing.”

“Please,” he said. “Tell me how I can repay you.”

She put her cheek against his chest and closed her eyes.

“Do you know of a fine wild man,” she whispered, “with dark hair and brown eyes who might love me? I lost one long ago. I ran away, but I could never go far enough to forget the sound of his voice.”

His voice was rough. “Anne—”

“Do you know of one who might have me? For I’m lonely, and I’m needing him back.”

Murphy said nothing but pulled back and tipped her chin up so her eyes met his. All his gentle amusement had fled, and his gaze held the longing of the young immortal she’d met so long ago.

Angry and cocksure, he’d been. Passionate and impulsive.

Vulnerable.

Age had shaped him and molded him, but in that moment, he was as unguarded as she’d ever seen him.

“Truly, Áine?”

“A chuisle mo chroí,” she said. “Pulse of my heart, Patrick. Your blood runs with mine. I don’t want to live without you anymore. Don’t make me—”

He stopped her mouth with a hungry kiss. His arms banded around her, and she could feel the length of his fangs against her skin as he rolled her under his body. He was hard against her soft. Her head began to spin with his energy as he kissed her over and over again. He was already naked, and he quickly stripped the nightclothes she had donned.

Anne was painfully, instantly aroused. She tilted her head back, baring her neck. “Please…”

She didn’t have to ask twice. His fangs pierced her skin as he entered her. Pleasure and pain and a dizzying swell of energy. Her legs came up and pressed against his hips, holding him closer.

It wasn’t close enough.

He drank, pulling hard against her neck as the first wave of pleasure crested and swept over her. She felt him inside. Her body. Her blood. There was no truer joining than this.

Were you born of woman

Or did you come from the earth?

He didn’t come from the earth but from the water. From the springs deep within and the waters that fed the land. And when she closed her eyes, she saw them—the river against the sea—and it was a beauty she understood with trembling awe. They were more than two in that moment. They were the blood of creation.