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“Because I revolt you.”
“No!”
She saw the faint easing of tension in his muscles, the subtle relaxation of his lips, and hated herself for her ready response, for her vulnerability, for her honesty.
Hated him for making her feel.
Because he did not revolt her. Far from it.
“A relationship between us is impossible. You must see that. I’ll get old and wrinkled and die, and you’ll always be…” She flapped her hand at him, one gesture encompassing his strength, his immortality, his perfect masculine physique. “Like this.”
Griff took her hand. Held it, despite her attempts to tug away. “Not always. The island’s magic keeps us young. That’s why our children are fostered in human families and why they take so long to mature once we bring them here. But outside of Sanctuary, we age as humans do, for as long as we are in human form.”
He sat beside her on the bed, lacing his fingers with hers. The mattress depressed under his weight until her thigh touched his. “We could grow old together, Emma. If we moved the school, moved with the children to a neighboring island, it would suit all our needs.”
Emma’s hand trembled in his hold. She wanted nothing more than to fall into the promise of those warm, deep eyes, to fall into his arms, to fall in with his plans. But something niggled at the edge of her consciousness, swayed below the surface of her thoughts, like a sea anemone swaying and retracting in the tide. Something about the school…
Slowly, she withdrew her hand from his. “What needs?”
“I need you,” he answered so promptly she was almost disarmed. “The children need you.”
His pelt still lay beside her on the bed. Dark, like the hair on his head and chest, and silky smooth. She ruffled the fur with her fingers and felt his sudden stillness, heard his breathing change.
“Emma…”
A scar slashed across the thick, smooth fur, a hard, silver ridge running like a road through a forest. She traced it with her finger. A scar…
“What is this?” Her voice was high. Tight.
“My chain.” Griff touched the silver band around his neck and smiled ruefully. “It…rubs, under the pelt.”
Emma looked at the braided silver chain, the stylized spiral medallion glinting against his warm muscle and crisp dark hair.
And saw the seal in the Liverpool harbor with the necklace of scars around its throat.
“It was you,” she whispe
red. “The seal at the docks.”
“Aye.”
“You watched me.”
“Emma—”
“You followed me.”
“Yes.”
Her voice rose. “My being here—it wasn’t an accident, was it?”
“Lass—”
She felt sick. “The shipwreck wasn’t an accident.”
He was silent.
Dear God.
