Page 26 of King of the Dawn

Her brows furrowed as she tilted her head and took in the state of the once dead stems now regrowing life.

“Wouldn’t that kill them?” she asked, running her finger along one of the potted flowers.

“I clipped them and helped their roots re-grow. So they’ll be able to be placed outside and grow into bushes,” I said. “They need a lot of tender care though. Could you grab that light?” I pointed to a green lamp that was only about the size of my palm. It held a clip so I could place it on the pots and aim it how I needed.

Rose listened, and I took it from her. I set it up and turned it on so that it was pointed to the plant. “When the babes are here, and you and Alastair leave, you’ll take these two,” I said. “They’ll grow in your new home. A reminder of the love they had here.”

Rose glanced back at the men, who seemed to have settled. At least there was less bickering from them.

“New home?” Jericho grumbled, staring at his son-in-law with malice. “Why the hell would you take her out of here?”

Alastair smirked, shrugged, and rolled his eyes. “She’s a married, soon-to-be mother of two. You don’t think that she might want a home of her own?”

“I can fix the married part…” Jericho’s threats faded into the background, as I turned my face back to Rose.

I touched her tanned face, my pale hand looked as delicate as paper beside her strength.

“Thank you, Aoibheann,” Rose said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” I started. “They’re yours. Which means, they are your responsibility now. You’ll make sure they don’t die.”

“What?” she choked on a laugh, her head shaking. “I don’t know anything about gardening. I’ll kill them.”

I shrugged. “I’ll teach you.”

Having the plants to keep her mind busy would help her feel more at ease, would make her feel less like a prisoner in the house. It was my gesture, my promise to make sure she wasn’t alone. Rose wrapped me in a hug and squeezed me so hard I thought my ribs might crack.

Chapter Ten

Jericho

Her delicate finger ran along each spine as she traveled the herbal medicine section of the bookstore. She’d spent her day in the home library, looking for what she needed while I spent mine watching her. I should have used that time looking for Brock.

We should have found him by now. Alas, he was too good at hiding. And I was doubting my ability to do my fucking job.

I hadn’t wanted to bring her here, but the pleading look in her emerald eyes killed me. Against my better judgment, here we stood, my witch checking each title as she hummed her melodic tune while I never took my eyes off her.

We were exposed and though it should have been a normal outing, a simple date evening between husband and wife, I couldn’t bring myself to enjoy her time.

I stood behind her, hands stuffed in my pockets as I watched, and waited. My shoulders were slumped, and everything about my body language screamed pure contentment. I was a married man, watching his wife in her happy place. Her joy brought me my own.

Well, it should have. Yet here I was, apprehension stirring inside of me. We weren’t safe out in the open like this. Not with Brock still on the run. He could be tailing us, could have someone else doing it for him and reporting back that we were in public.

“Are you almost done, sweet Evie?” I asked, my tone low, carefree.

It took immense effort to pretend I wasn’t reeling on the inside.

“Yes,” she sang as she pulled a book from the shelf. Her hand ran along the title before hugging it to her chest. She turned to me, grinning.

“Found what you’re looking for?” I asked. My gaze was on her, but I was readily aware of our surroundings, of the man to our right that had been lurking for too long, instead of on how the green in her eyes sparkled with satisfaction. How could I relish in her beauty when all I wanted was her safety?

My witch nodded, tightening the book to her chest with one arm, and extending the other to reach for me. “Ready.”

I hesitated a moment. Each touch of our skin meeting sent me into a spiral of doubts. I’d convinced myself I wasn’t good enough for her, that she deserved to be at peace with Ryan, living above a bookstore in Ireland, belly swollen with his child.

Each time I conjured that image, each time I attempted to open the pages of her story and finish out the ending, a pang of jealousy and resentment struck me in my heart. It should be my baby, not his. It should be our gothic mansion–the home I grew up in and had resented for its lack of love that was now filled to the brim with plants and candles and incense. Everything that was uniquely her.

I’d have to purge the place of her things when I finally let her go. Maybe even set fire to the atrium. I’d never be able to set foot in the library again without wandering to her happy place. And being there without her would be too painful.

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