Page 132 of Midnight Conquest

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her like she was the only thing that could save him. Because she was. Her heartbeat thudded against his cheek, a quiet, steady rhythm that soothed the wild storm inside him.

He breathed her in, that familiar sweetness of rose oil and life, her blood a siren call and sanctuary all at once. His chest ached with the weight of it, the unbearable truth:She was everything.

Her fingers threaded through his hair, gentle and sure, not to pull him closer—he was already hers—but to cradle him. Tokeephim. To tell him without words that she accepted every broken, brutal part of him.

Slowly, he rose and pulled her to her feet, cradling her face between his palms as though she were made of breath and hopeand things too precious to be real. He kissed her, not for hunger, not for possession, but to pour every raw promise into her mouth, every unspoken vow carved into his bones.

She was his life now. His heart. His salvation.

And he knew, as sure as the sun would rise, that no matter the darkness ahead, he would never let her go.

When they parted, breathing ragged and foreheads gently pressed together, Davina smiled softly, tears still sparkling like jewels on her lashes. “I have one more question.”

He blinked, a twinge of fear twisting his heart, but he nodded.

“Just how old are you?”

Broderick’s mouth curled with a faint, rueful smile. “On April the fourth, in the year of our Lord fifteen hundred and fourteen, I turned five-and-sixty,” he admitted.

Davina’s eyes widened in shock, a startled gasp escaping her lips. “Five-and-sixty?”

“Aye,” Broderick drawled, his dark eyes glinting with playful mischief. “I confess wholeheartedly tae bein’ a wicked, dirty ol’ man.”

Davina laughed freely, the sweet sound igniting warmth within his chest, and he captured her mouth again, savoring the joy her laughter brought.

Shouts from the castle gate fractured their tender intimacy. Broderick stiffened, his heightened senses flaring instantly.

“Someone approaches the gate!”

Fear and protectiveness surged through him, and Broderick turned toward Davina, his gaze fierce and resolute. “Stay here.”

He vanished in a blur, supernatural speed carrying him swiftly to the gatehouse. He ascended the stone steps in mere seconds, eyes narrowing dangerously as he peered down upon the figure below.

“Veronique,” he snarled, his voice harsh with betrayal.

His gaze fixed coldly on the battered figure stumbling toward the gate, illuminated starkly by torchlight. Her gown was torn, her hair wild, and bloodied scrapes covered her arms. Her hand clutched her abdomen protectively, movements labored and unstable.

“Gavin,” Broderick growled to the guard, his tone steel-edged and commanding. “Keep that gate locked.”

The guard hesitated uncertainly, torn between sympathy and obedience. “But she appears hurt, sir—”

“I said keep it locked.” Broderick’s voice was low and unyielding, permitting no defiance, the fear of that May Day celebration clutching his heart anew.

Gavin nodded curtly, gripping his pike with renewed determination, eyes reluctantly fixed upon the injured figure outside the gate.

Broderick leaned forward, gripping the stone wall as he reached outward with his senses. His eyes closed briefly, consciousness stretching like tendrils through the darkened woodland beyond the castle walls, probing for any whisper of other Vamsyrians lurking nearby. Only the subtle rustling of leaves answered him, the breeze offering no betrayal. Silence.

His eyes snapped open, gaze hardening as Veronique drew closer, her pale face slick with sweat under the moon’s indifferent glow. She stumbled to her knees just outside the gate, swaying weakly.

“Broderick…” Her voice was fragile as a dying breath yet carried to him with haunting clarity.

He cursed softly beneath his breath, then vaulted from the wall, landing effortlessly upon the ground, ignoring the astonished gasps from the men. Gravel crunched beneathdetermined strides as he closed the distance in moments.

“Veronique,” he hissed, taking her roughly by the shoulders. “What madness brings ye here?”

Her head tilted limply forward, eyes glazed and unfocused. Fever radiated from her skin, crimson scratches marking her arms with dried blood. She appeared as if she’d crawled from some tortured nightmare in the forest.

“S’il te plaît,” she pleaded faintly, words slurred and desperate, before collapsing into Broderick’s waiting arms.

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