Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Silence.
"But magic didn't happen," I continue, because apparently I can't stop talking when I'm mortified. "The wall was just a wall. And now I have a bruise. And you're looking at me like I've lost my mind, which—fair. I probably have."
He doesn't say anything. His expression is unreadable, his golden eyes fixed on mine in the mirror.
And then:
"The difference is approximately three-quarters of an inch of bruised forehead."
I blink.
His face gives me nothing. Absolutely nothing. He delivers the line like he's stating a fact, perfectly neutral, perfectly serious.
"Did you just—"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You made a Harry Potter joke."
"I made an observation about the metric distance between your expectations and reality."
"That's—" I don't know if I want to laugh or groan. "You're not funny."
"I'm not trying to be funny."
"You're definitely trying to be funny."
"I'm trying to understand why my wife thought running headfirst into a wall was a reasonable course of action."
"It made sense at the time."
"Nothing about this makes sense." But his voice has softened, and his thumb finally brushes over the bruise—feather-light, careful. "You should have told me."
"I was embarrassed."
"You should have told me anyway."
"Why? So you could mock me with Harry Potter references?"
"So I could—" He stops. His jaw works. "So I could take care of it."
Oh.
The words hang in the air between us, reflected in the mirror. His hand is still on my face. His eyes are still locked on mine. And something in my chest cracks open.
"It doesn't even hurt anymore," I say softly.
"That's not the point."
"Then what is the point?"
He doesn't answer right away. Just looks at me, his expression shifting into something I can't quite name.
"The point," he says finally, "is that you're mine. And what's mine, I take care of."
My heart does a slow roll in my chest.
"That's very possessive of you."
"Yes."
"You don't even sound sorry about it."
"I'm not."
He's still touching my face. Still looking at me like I'm something precious and infuriating and entirely his. And I should probably say something intelligent, something that addresses the fact that we barely know each other and he still doesn't trust me and there's a question hanging between us that neither of us wants to answer.
Instead I say: "You could kiss it better."
His eyes darken.
"I mean—that wasn't—I was joking—"
"Were you."
"Yes? No? I don't—"
He leans in.
His lips brush my forehead, exactly where it hurts.
Soft. Gentle.
And then he pulls back just enough to look at me, his face inches from mine, and the way he's watching me—intent, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and plans to use it—makes my breath catch.
"But I want," he says quietly, "to give my wife more."
I swallow. "More?"
"Being the perfect husband that your mother says I am."
Oh. Oh no. The callback to my mom—the way his eyes are gleaming—the slow smile that's spreading across his face—
I start to back away. "I just asked for a forehead kiss—"
His hand slides from my chin to the back of my neck.
"And I'm giving you one."
"That's—I don't think—"
He kisses me, and I forget all about walls and bruises and magical bookshops. I forget about everything except the warmth of his hands and the way my whole body melts into his like this is exactly where I'm supposed to be.
When he finally breaks the kiss, I'm breathless.
"That was more than a forehead kiss," I manage.
"I'm an overachiever."
"You're—you can't just—"
"I can." He pulls back enough to look at me, something warm flickering in those golden eyes. "I did. And now—"
He lifts me.
One motion. Easy. Like I weigh nothing.
"Devyn—"
"You were standing too still."
"That doesn't even make sense—"
"It makes perfect sense." He's carrying me toward the bed, and I should protest, but his arms are warm and solid around me and I can't remember why protesting seemed like a good idea. "You're injured. You need rest."
"I have a bruise on my forehead, not a broken leg."
"Rest," he repeats, setting me down on the sheets. "Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"I'm your husband." He leans over me, one hand braced beside my head. "Close enough."
And then he's kissing me again, and I stop arguing.
The next day, I wake to an empty bed, morning light, and a note on his pillow.
Meetings until evening. Rest. Don't run into any walls.
—D
I stare at the note for a long moment. At the almost-humor in that last line. At the initial instead of his name, like we're familiar enough now for shortcuts.
Then I fold it carefully and tuck it into the nightstand drawer.
I have work to do.
THE CHAPEL LOOKS DIFFERENT in morning light. Smaller, somehow. More ordinary. Just a room with pews and stained glass and a panel carved with roses in the back corner.
I cross to the panel. Press the center bloom.
The door groans open.
The darkness beyond is absolute.
I turn on my flashlight and step through.
The passage is just as I remember—narrow, cold, the walls pressing close on either side. Stone under my feet, damp and ancient. The air smells like dust and minerals and time.