Page 25 of A Snowed in Valentine's

“You must be tired,” he said.

She seemed to realize she was leaning against the table and nodded, her cheeks darkening some more. Silently declining his offer to support her, she headed for one of the chairs in front ofthe fireplace and plunked down on it with a soft sigh that made his insides flutter.

After what had happened between them the other day, he’d been unable to get her out of her mind. How much time had passed? A week and some days? He’d gotten used to feeding her and holding her as she slept. Time seemed to pass more quickly while she was unconscious. And when she wasn’t, it stopped.

“You must be cold,” he told her, and without waiting for a response, he headed for a stack of wooden logs tucked by the side of the fireplace, practically obscured from view in the dim light. He tossed a couple of logs onto the fire, watching it flare and brighten the room. Satisfied with the heat from the flame, he took the seat opposite Daphne, who didn’t meet his eyes.

“How are things on Earth?” he wanted to know.

“Terrible,” came her reply, and he finally caught her grey-eyed gaze. “They think I’m a terrorist.”

“Who?”

“The feds.” When he frowned, she gave a wave of her hand. “The FBI. They’re…authorities. And they’ve got my grimoire. I don’t think they’re going to let me go anytime soon. For now, I’m their prisoner.”

He stared at her, unsure how to respond. It was one thing to be stuck slipping between worlds. It was another to be a prisoner in both.

“You know,” she said, staring into the flames, “I wonder if I could have avoided all this. If I’d just stayed home, if I hadn’t tried to open a portal, maybe none of this would be happening. I know it wasn’t my magic that opened that portal, but I can’t help feeling a bit responsible for Flight 18. Maybe if I hadn’t boarded that flight…”

I wouldn’t have met you.

The thought crept into his mind just then, startling him. If she hadn’t arrived on Frost Mountain, he would never have met her.It was an idea he should have relished. Instead, he found himself brushing it out of his mind.

He surprised himself by speaking. “Do you feel responsible because you survived the plane crash? Not many people do whenever a plane appears on Frost Mountain.” When her eyebrows furrowed, he added. “Or is it because a part of you gets to stay back on Earth while everyone else on that flight is either dead or struggling to survive on Frost Mountain?”

The shrug she gave him was noncommittal.

With a deep sigh, August leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the bearskin rug. “I understand that kind of guilt,” he said after a moment of silence. “I know what it’s like to see people suffer a fate they shouldn’t have. I know what it’s like to feel helpless to do anything about it.”

“You’re talking about Alaina,” she said.

His head snapped up so suddenly he thought he might have injured himself. How had she figured that out?

“It was a lucky guess,” she added. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

He stared at her for a few seconds. Tired though she looked, she was an appealing sight. Her blonde hair was tucked carefully over her ear; her lips puckered slightly. The sight of her seated barely five feet away caused a stirring in his trousers, and he wondered if she would object to him sliding his fingers through her hair.

Or between her luscious thighs.

Slowly, he nodded.

“Do you want to tell me about her?”

The stirring died down almost instantly. He blinked at her, trying to come up with an appropriate response.

“Witch-hunting has been a part of my family ever since the first of us was exiled to Frost Mountain.”

By your ancestor and her coven,he refrained from adding.

“My ancestor, Andrew Kane, was embittered by the shifters’ treatment at the hands of the witches. He had a gift of foresight that revealed to him whenever a witch was nearby, and he swore to use it to destroy any witch who set foot on Frost Mountain.”

He paused, then said, “Witch-hunting has been a tradition in my family for centuries. My mother was a witch-hunter. I am the last Kane.”

“I’m the last Emerson,” she said and suddenly stiffened like she hadn’t meant to utter those words.

“Alaina,” he went on, “was my wife.”

He turned his gaze to the flames, his jaw clenching as the memories he’d struggled to keep at bay for so long broke through the dam in his mind.

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