Page 64

I claw at the bare skin of his shoulders, my fingers digging into the hard slabs of muscle on his back, burying my face into the crook of his neck. He smells of sweat and everything that’s right in the world.

My bloody thumb presses flat against his skin.

Something locks.

The blinding magic burning through my brain redirects, crashing into Lachlan’s chest like a lightning strike.

Every tendon in his neck stiffens, his jaw locking tight.

His boots grind against the flagstones as he absorbs the blow.

The handfasting marks on our wrists ignite.

Lachlan shudders, his arms clamping around my waist with bone-crushing strength, lifting my feet completely off the ground as he holds me suspended against his chest. His heart hammers against my ribs, and I try breathe.

"I've got you," he pants against my hair, his voice breaking. "I've got you, lass. Let it go into the dirt. Give it to me."

I bury my forehead into his neck, gasping for air, letting the boiling heat drain out of my skull and pour into his body.

Slowly, the pressure recedes.

The blinding white spots in my vision fade into the gray autumn morning. The roaring in my ears slows to a dull rush, and the ice pick agony dulls into an ache I can actually survive. Probably.

My feet touch the flagstones again, but my knees are Jello.

Lachlan doesn't let me fall. He sinks down with me, pulling me into his lap. One arm stays locked around my ribs, keeping me anchored against his chest, while his free hand comes up to cup the side of my face, his thumb wiping the trickle of red from my upper lip.

"Vivienne," he breathes, his chest heaving beneath me, his skin scorching hot against my cheek. "Breathe, lass. Look at me."

I open my eyes, blinking away the moisture clinging to my lashes.

Lachlan’s face is inches from mine. His hazel eyes are completely blown, the gold burning bright and wild around pupils so wide they swallow the irises. The teeth grazing his lower lip are elongated, sharp, lethal points. The bear is right beneath the surface.

I can see it. I can see what he is.

He rests his forehead against mine, his hot breath washing over my mouth, smelling of pine and raw magic.

"You're a madwoman," he whispers, his voice trembling with a relief so absolute it rattles his bones. "A stubborn madwoman."

"I told you," I croak out, letting my head fall back against his shoulder, listening to the frantic beat of his heart beneath my ear. "Cardio is dangerous."

Lachlan’s arm tightens around my waist, his fingers splaying across my hip, holding me so close there isn't a millimeter of air between us. The only sound in the courtyard is our ragged breathing and the rustle of dead leaves against stone.

Beside the bench, Kirk gives a quiet wooden click, nudging my dropped coffee mug upright with his carved snout.

My gaze drifts past Lachlan’s bare shoulder to the center of the flagstones.

The grimoire lies ten feet away, closed and silent in the dirt. But from beneath the leather cover, a thin wisp of crimson smoke still curls into the cold air.

The memory of the burning pages flashes behind my eyes. The black text writhing like worms, turning into living script the moment my drop of blood touched the vellum.

"Lachlan," I say his name seriously.

Lachlan pulls back slightly, his eyes tracking mine as he looks over at the book.

"I saw it," he rumbles, his hand sliding down to grip my wrist, his thumb resting over the pulsing Celtic braid. "I saw the ink turn."

"Nullification unmakes," I say, thinking out loud. "It strips magic away. If my blood was pure Midnight, that shouldn’t have happened.”