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And when Lachlan finally opens his mouth, his voice is so soft, so full of awe, that it makes my heart feel fit to bursting with emotion.

“Come for me,” he all but whispers. “Come for me, love.”

I do, as if my body obeys his command. I fall apart, I shatter—barely even noticing when the lightbulbs spark out, when the windows start to rattle with the force of a sudden wind that has no business here on this very sunny morning.

It’s all white noise to the way I quake through my orgasm, vaguely hearing Lachlan grunt after me, feeling his cock pulse deep inside as warmth floods me. I let my hands cover his, which still hold my hips, my mouth still open and panting toward the ceiling, my eyes still shut tight as I savor the feelings still flickering inside.

I don’t move until Lachlan physically makes me, pulling me up and off him and down into his arms as he holds me close. He cards his fingers through my wild curls as he kisses my temple, pulling me flush against his body until there isn’t a space left between us. His warmth and the calm radiating off him have fatigue settling in after such a long night and what seems like a longer morning, and without either of us seeming to be able to conjure up words for what just happened, I release a long, drawn-out yawn, which makes the sleepless night I had come crashing down on me.

“Sleep,” he murmurs, nuzzling my hair. “We’ll talk when you wake up.”

I nod against his chest, believing him. He’ll still be here when Iwake up. I know this because I know how he feels about me. I felt it just now. Whether by magic or some deluded sense of intuition, I felt every bit of what Lachlan feels for me, as clear as if he’d told me himself. So I know now more than ever that this thing we’re doing…it’s real.

Because my feelings are exactly the same.

I wake up before Lachlan; I can’t be sure how much time has passed since we fell asleep, but the sun is streaming in through the window at full force now, so I would guess it’s well after noon. I pretty much stopped carrying my phone most of the time a few weeks ago; it’s still a novel thing for me, but with most of my friends back in New York having drifted when my dad got sick…there’s really no one for me to talk to that I can’t just get up and go find now.

A wild concept, really.

I dress quietly, covering Lachlan with a blanket and letting him get what is probably some much-needed sleep—moving to the kitchen table with a cup of coffee I painstakingly made in his ancient coffee maker before resuming my reading of the journal. So far, there have been only a few mentions of the bridle: when Sorcha came to the keep, when Lachlan’s ancestor struck their deal, when he betrayed her…I’m only just now reading how Tavish reclaimed it and freed her from her prison. This part hurts to read, actually, because another revelation I’ve stumbled upon has been that Lachlan’s ancestor wasn’t cursed untilafterSorcha had been set free. Not as some cruel trick from a fickle creature, but as punishment for almost ayearof imprisonment under some really horrid circumstances that I hope Lachlan never has to read about. He feels enough guilt as it is for this prick that shares his last name.

The remaining bit of the book grows thinner and thinner after Sorcha’s freedom and Tavish’s written joy at her having returned his love—after that, there is an account of their wedding, talk of using the bridle to ensure that the Laird never harmed them or their family again, that he even parted with some land that they could start a new life on. After that…nothing. Just a day-to-day account of their very sweet—but admittedly rather mundane—lives.

That’s it?I keep thinking.All of that, and it’s just farm life happily ever after?

For Sorcha, Tavish definitely fits the “lovestruck fool” moniker Rhona mentioned; the woman could do no wrong in his eyes. Every mention of her is painted through rose-colored glasses, which is sweet, I suppose, but he just…never mentions the bridle again. Not after briefly noting that they would do well to use its power sparingly, so as not to gain attention.

I can feel my frustration mounting higher and higher with every turned page, and by the time I’ve reached the last few, I’m feeling downright morose. Because this can’t be another dead end. Itcan’t. I can’t bear to face Lachlan when he wakes up and tell him I have no more answers. The bridle washere, damnit, It wasrighthere.

The last page is an ordinary account of an ordinary day—something silly about a broken plow and Tavish feeling his age even though his Sorcha remains as lovely as ever. It would make me smile if not for the fact that it marks absolute failure at being any closer to the bridle’s location. At being any closer tosavingLachlan.

I’m just about ready to close the book and toss it to the floor, but then I notice the shadow of more writing after the last page. I lift it curiously to the back cover, my eyes rounding when I find more written there that is nothing like Tavish’s jagged handwriting, but instead a smooth, almost artful script.

To you who finds the journal of my beloved,

My Tavish has passed in the night, and with him, my heart passes too. In all my years of life, I never thought to love a mortal man. Men have been cruel to my kind, to me, and I have grown knowing not to trust them, to fear them, when necessary.

But Tavish changed my mind.

I bury this journal on our land, our home, hoping that one day when our story has been lost to the passing of time, our love will live on. That our children’s children will find his words and know where they come from. I choose to leave this life with my husband; no world without him is one I want to walk.

I leave my bridle with my beloved, for my magic is my heart, and only he can hold it.

Remember my curse, O child of MacKay. Remember it, and know that those who gave us suffering now suffer in turn. In my years with Tavish living as a mortal woman, I have come to learn what it is to forgive, but forgiveness cannot be granted from me. Such is the power of words, such is the nature of my curse. For while I can never be a daughter of MacKay, one day one such lass shall walk this world, hold my magic, and be given a chance to forgive. Only should she take it, will my curse be no more.

Remember my words:

O Thou, of face so fair an’ name so high,

With heart as black as the darkest sky

Thy cursed deeds yield cursed prize

An’ prayers nor pleas will spare thy fate

In moonlight change till the sun doth rise

Yer flesh shall bear yer soul’s foul weight