Page 93 of Shattered & Returned

I nodded, accepting his truth. “I have a few more questions. And I want you to answer me truthfully.”

He brought my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles with a smirk. “For you? I’ll try my best, little flower.”

“This isn’t a game.”

“Never said it was.” His expression sobered, though his eyes still burned. “Ask.”

I stepped back, and this time he let me go. No cage of arms, no trapping me against the shelves. Maybe clearing the air about Morrigan had knocked some sense into him. Or maybe he just knew I wasn’t running.

I moved to the open space near the sofas, pacing once, twice, before whirling to face him. I held up a finger.

“First question,” I said. “Are you immortal?”

His lips quirked. “Not exactly.”

“But you’re not mortal.”

“No. You already knew that.”

“Then whatareyou?”

“That,” he said, tilting his head, “you’ll have to figure out yourself. I can only give yes or no.”

“Because you can’ttell me?”

“No, I can’t.”

“Is it blood magic? A vow? A curse?” I pressed, thinking of the texts I’d skimmed, ancient bindings that choked truths before they could be spoken.

His mouth opened, then his muscles locked, pain rippling across his face. The words died unspoken. I recoiled, suddenly hating myself for pushing. Seeing him in pain felt like a fist tightening around my throat.

But I had my answer. And with it, the cold certainty that I wasn’t paranoid. Somethingwashunting me. The redheads, their deaths, and the way history kept rewriting itself to erase them was all connected.

I might be the last one left in my bloodline.

I swallowed. “So you’re a demigod?”

“No.”

“But you can’t be a god.” I let out a dry laugh. “The gods left this world long ago.”

Even if immortals occasionally dabbled with mortals, the idea of gods and human women was almost laughable. Their power would burn through mortal flesh like kindling.

So I didn’t bother asking if he was actually a god and make a fool of myself. Even mortal men hesitated to pick me, let alone Nero Ravencrux, who could have anyone. Yet he wanted me, a mystery I’d stopped trying to solve.

I shuddered as his arm slid around my waist, pulling me against his hard chest. Every question, every doubt scattered like ash in the wind as his hungry, possessive gaze locked onto mine.

“Now it’s my turn for questions,” he said. “Just one.”

I braced myself. “What?”

His fingers brushed the hollow of my throat. “When did the asthma start?”

Heat rushed to my face, not just at the intimacy of his touch, but at the admission of weakness. Still, I held his gaze. No more running.

“After the drowning nightmares,” I said, my eyes misting. “I’ve had them for years. Dreams of dying over and over, each death different.” I sucked in a ragged breath, watching his face for any flicker of judgment. I’d never felt so exposed, sharing this darkness. “Except it wasn’t exactly me. It was women who looked like me, down to every atom. Same hair. Same face.”

His face paled. His expression hardened, but not before a flash of raw fury and pain cut through his winter-green eyes. Then, just as suddenly, hope. The shift was so stark, it stole my breath.

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