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Not only had he never been so close to such a large animal before, but watching Avery weep into her hands, the pure joy on every line of her face, the breathless way she’d looked up at him like she was dying for him to kiss her.

It fractured something in him.

In all the years he’d been trapped inside Kilmorran, yesterday was the first time in nearly two centuries he found himself truly angry. Why her? Why now?

When he couldn’t reach her?

When he couldn’t do it properly?

He’d been caught in the undertow of his thoughts. Part of him knew it would be better to let her go. To slowly fade and hide until she left. Better to let her think he found peace than hurt them both more than necessary.

The other part of him—the part of him that could feel the heat of her skin and delighted in making her laugh—held on tight with both hands, fingers knotted together.

He didn’t want to let go.

Christ, he wanted.

He wanted her.

Her smiles. Her laughter. The crease between her brows when she was deep in thought. The way one corner of her mouth hitched higher when she was about to poke at him. The blush that kissed its way across her cheeks and neck while she read. Her stubbornness. The bravery.

Everything.

He looked at her, wondering how fate could be so kind and so cruel all at the same time.

“To what end?” he asked, unable to look at her.

“What do you mean to what end? If it helps you, why not?”

Wolfe sighed, scrubbing a hand around his jaw. “Nothing…” He gathered himself. He had to try at least once. “Nothing we do will ever bring me back. Not fully.”

Avery deflated, hands slipping back down to her sides. “I know that,” she began cautiously. “I just thought—”

“I will still wither, Avery,” he said gruffly. Blood drained from her face. “You will go, and I will fade back into nothing.”

“Please don’t say that,” she whispered. “I can’t bear to think of it.”

“It’s the truth.” He pushed from the couch, too restless to sit. A log snapped in half in the grate and he felt it down to his bones. “We are—we are pretending.”

She flinched, as if struck.

Go, he begged. Please, go. Please, don’t look at me like that. Please, stay with me.

“Is that what this is?” She waved to the space between them.

“What else is it?” He forced himself to say it, to try and spare her one last time.

“I thought we were friends.”

He closed his eyes against the wave of grief that slammed into him.

She was his friend. Perhaps his only friend.

“We are,” he rumbled. “But going to the stones…it’s a foolish dream. We are separated. We always will be.”

She moved behind him and he suppressed his shiver. The warmth of her. The scent of tea and parchment. He curled his hands into fists to keep from reaching for her. If he were honest, he was scared to go to the stones. On the off chance it made him more real, more solid, he would not be able to keep himself from reaching for her.

Her hand came to rest on his shoulder. He felt the weight of it, the heat of her skin blazing through him.