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“Couldn’t what, love?”

Ophelia’s eyes widen at the harshly rasped endearment. “I couldn’t let him hurt you.”

All at once, the frenzy of those emotions slides away. In its place, a slow, trembling sort of warmth. A disbelief and awe at the woman standing before me.

I pull her back into my arms. “That still doesn’t mean I’m worth putting yourself in danger.”

“You’re going to have to let me decide that,” she says with a small, wet laugh.

We stay that way for a few long moments. My heart beats in time with hers, my breath becomes her own, and a wave of knee-buckling relief washes over me.

With no defenses, no excuses, the realization of just what’s happened over these last few weeks settles over me right alongside that relief.

I’ve fallen for Ophelia.

Hard, fast, irrevocable.

Whether or not she feels the same, what’s left of my soul is now in her keeping.

With each beat of my heart, each beat of hers, I feel it settling more and more firmly into place. I can’t find the words, can’t even begin to figure out how to start the conversation that needs to be had, so I do the next best thing.

I just hold her. I hold her and savor the warm, vibrant life of her in my arms.

When we finally pull back a few bare inches from that embrace, I take in the tangled state of her hair, the small bits of dirt and debris caught in its length and scattered across her clothing from our tumble in the graveyard.

“Come on,” I say, offering her my hand. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

We walk upstairs together, climb into the shower, and take turns washing and tending to each other. There’s hardly an ounce of seduction in the touches, and the easy comfort that flows between us is one more healed crack in my battered heart.

A heart that belongs entirely to Ophelia.

I’m nearly undone by it, nearly ready to drag her into my bed and ask if she’ll let me bond her here and now, though it’s a question that certainly needs a good night’s sleep and several hours, days, perhaps weeks to entirely tease out.

But I don’t get the chance.

Almost as soon as we step back into the bedroom, my phone rings from the pocket of my discarded pants.

“Ignore it,” Ophelia groans as she sprawls across the bed.

I want to agree with her, but a nagging voice in the back of my head prompts me to at least look.

I regret it immediately.

“Philippe,” I say curtly as I answer. “You have five seconds to convince me not to hang up.”

I glance to Ophelia. She props herself up on an elbow, watching me with a furrowed brow and concern written all over her face. My chest aches again, and I can’t imagine there could be anything in the world important enough to take my attention away from her now.

“The covens are meeting to discuss what happened tonight and how we’re going to respond.”

Well. I stand corrected.

“Representatives from all three,” Philippe goes on. “Not just mine. As a courtesy, I’ve been asked to extend the invitation to you as well.”

“Why?”

Philippe doesn’t bother responding to that, no doubt irked I’m being included. “Should I tell them you won’t be attending?”

“I’ll be there.”