Page 71

All I could think about was the expression on Key’s face when I told her it was a bad idea for us to pursue…whatever happened back in the castle. Not because I don’t want her—because I’m realizing now that, however impractical, Ireallyfucking want her—but because she’s already suffered so much. She’slostso much. I can’t in good conscience risk being another thing she loses.

Maybe that’s arrogant of me, assuming anything that might happen between us would be so important that she would mourn it once it was gone. But the way I felt touching her, kissing her…it feels like thestartof something important. More than the quick flings I’ve sought out with strangers just to satisfy an urge, no, touching Key felt almost…like I was meant to touch her. Like it was right somehow.

But that’s ridiculous, isn’t it?

And I haven’t even told her everything. I haven’t told her what the rest of the curse entails, what that might mean for her. How would that make her feel? And why does the possibility of hurting her withthat knowledge makemefeel terrified? I don’t want to hurt her, I’ve realized. I don’t want to give her any more reasons to be sad. Despite what her family has done to mine, despite whatever part she might have to play in my story…it feels like she’s suffered enough.

These thoughts continue to swirl around in my head as I make the long trek back toward the farm—the sun just beginning to climb higher in the sky as I trudge down the path that leads away from the farmhouse toward my wee groundskeeper’s cottage. There is a moment where I stand still and stare at the larger house up the hill, imagining myself pounding on Key’s door and telling her I didn’t mean any of it. Telling her that Iamafraid, but that I think she might be worth it.

And how fucking selfish would that be of me?

I eventually shake away the idea of it, continuing on, not stopping until I’m shutting the door to the cottage behind me and shucking off my wellies as fatigue seeps into my very bones. Not physical, really, but mental is more like. Spiritual, maybe, even. Like every awful thing I’ve endured in my life has culminated into this one giant pile of shite, burying me alive.

Because maybe there isn’t an answer out there for me.

Maybe it is simply my destiny to end up just like my da.

I shrug out of my coat and hang it by the door before I shuffle into the kitchen, hoping that coffee will make me feel more human. I grab the filter from the cabinet and reach for the can with the intention of getting it started, but before I can even fill the canister with water—a heavy banging sounds at my door.

My heart starts to thud in my chest as I turn to look, holding my breath until another loud thud rings against the wood.

“Lachlan! Open the door!”

Is it mental that I feel both elation and dread at the sound of hervoice? Has she come to yell at me some more? Maybe to tell me off for being a coward? I probably deserve it, truth be told.

“I’m not leaving until you open the door,” she calls.

I open my mouth, my voice sounding a bit hoarse. “You’ve said that before.”

“Yeah. I meant it then, and I mean it now too.”

I set the coffee can back on the countertop, my heart pounding against my ribs as I take a step toward my door. I should tell her to go. I know that. There’s nothing to be said that can change our situation. No good that can come from torturing myself with the sight of her lovely face.

But I still take another step.

“I mean it, Lachlan,” she yells. “Don’t make me start singing.”

I feel my lips curve into a smile without my permission, and then without even realizing I’ve crossed the rest of the space, I find my hand on the doorknob, pulling it open to reveal Keyanna MacKay in all her wild-haired, emerald-eyes-burning-with-fury glory.

“Anything but that, lass,” I murmur.

“You know”—she presses her fists to her hips, glaring up at me—“I thinkyou’rethe stupid one.”

My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline. “Do you, now?”

“I do.”

She takes a step toward me, arching an eyebrow in silent question as she waits for me to move. She doesn’t speak again until I’ve turned to the side, watching as she stomps past me and plants herself in the middle of the cottage, that same angry look on her face.

I shut the door, crossing my arms over my chest. “And why’s that?”

“Where do I start? First: You make me practically twist your arm into letting me help you.” She holds up a finger as if to check off my crimes. “Second: You kissed me.” That one has my brow furrowingin confusion, but she barrels on. “And third: You have the audacity to thinkyouget to decide whether or not I’m allowed to risk doing it some more.”

“Doing what, exactly?”

“Kissing you.”

I narrow my eyes. “But you said it was stupid.”