by Louisa West
When she tapped the screen of her new phone and saw that it was only 5:17 am, Rosie groaned and flopped back onto her pillow. After lying awake for a full twenty minutes, Rosie decided that she could get up and tidy the kitchen. She threw on her robe and tiptoed into the front hall, fighting back a blush as she peeked around the corner of the living room wall to check on Declan. And when she saw the state of him, she wished she hadn’t.
He sprawled across the couch, a blanket draped across his hips. The waistband of the jeans he’d slept in peeked out from beneath. His bare chest—which was far more glorious than Rosie had been able to imagine in her wildest sex-dreams—rose and fell softly as he continued to sleep. One arm was above his head, revealing both a deliciously posed bicep and exposed abs. If Rosie’s eyes got any bigger, they’d have been protruding like a cartoon character’s.
“Mom? What are you doing?”
“Gah!”
Rosie jumped, flailing her arms in the air. The noise was more than enough to wake Declan. He leaped off the couch with a grace that should not have belonged to a man who was sleeping soundly, not five seconds beforehand.
“How many times do I have to tell you not to sneak up on me!” Rosie put a hand to her chest and glared at Maggie, who furrowed her brow.
“I wasn’t sneaking!” she protested, “It’s not my fault you were too busy staring at Declan to hear me!”
Declan’s eyebrows shot upwards, his mouth twisting into a grin before Rosie turned her back on him so she could concentrate on Maggie. “I was not staring at Declan,” she lied, “I was walking out of my room to go and make breakfast for everyone.”
“It’s too early for breakfast,” Maggie said suspiciously.
“It’s too early for you to be awake, yet here we are!” Rosie countered.
“Girls, girls,” Declan said then, his accent almost enough to make the admonishment sound charming, but not quite. Maggie and Rosie both rounded on him, and he held his hands up in surrender. “Breakfast sounds grand,” he concluded wisely.
“The perfect pancake’s an art form,” Declan told Maggie as the pair of them stood over the stove in the kitchen. Maggie was clutching a spatula, and Declan was carefully pouring pancake batter into a griddle at her command.
“No way,” Maggie fired back, her face full of skepticism. “Anyone can cook a pancake.”
Rosie looked up from the news she was reading on her phone, her hand curled around the cup of hot coffee Declan had made her. She watched the pair of them interacting, sharing time. It made her sad and angry all at once. It had been years since Randy had shown that kind of interest in anything Maggie did.
“Do you really think it’s easy?” she asked Maggie, glancing at him before looking back to her daughter for an answer.
“She'll find out,” said Declan. Maggie grinned, shrugged, and then started poking the pancakes with her spatula.
“They’re not ready yet,” Declan warned her, but he was too late.
“I love pancake mush,” Rosie announced.
Declan met her gaze. “Me too.”
Rosie blushed and went to go back to her phone, but Maggie had other ideas.
“Mom, I’m not good at flipping pancakes yet.” Oh, the irony of five seconds passed. “Can you help Declan?” She waved the spatula. “Please? He said he couldn’t do it without supervision.”
Rosie knew that had been his way of getting Maggie to help—but it had come back to bite Rosie in the butt. She couldn’t very well say no when he needed supervision, could she? Declan paused in scraping the pancake mush out of the skillet long enough to raise a brow at her inquiringly.
“Sure,” she murmured, hopping off her stool and making her way over to assume spatula duty. “But if I'm making breakfast, you need to make your bed. Okay?”
“Okay!”
The kitchen was quiet except for the muted sizzling of pancakes. Rosie and Declan stood at the stove, their arms brushing as they waited for the freshly poured batter to start to bubble.
“You know, breakfast in bed would have been a better option than this,” he murmured cheekily. That was all it took for her blush to come back with a vengeance. She could feel the warmth of his breath on the side of her neck, and she resisted the urge to shiver even as she felt a tingle below her belly. His accent was so damned sexy.
Rosie bit the inside of her cheek and took a teensy step away from him, hoping he wouldn’t notice.
“You don’t even have a bed right now,” she said loftily. “So, don’t push your luck.”
“I wasn’t talking about having breakfast in my bed,” he grinned, leaning towards her to close the gap she’d created. His face was mere inches from hers, and she had to make an impossible decision between looking into his eyes or looking at his lips as they closed in on her. She gave in and glanced at his mouth, expecting it to reach hers any second, when she felt the spatula slide out of her grip. He retreated with a roguish grin, spatula in hand.
It took her a moment to realize what he’d done. When she cottoned on to the fact that his teasing had been a diversionary tactic, Rosie narrowed her eyes at him.
“First of all,” she said, annoyed, “you will never have breakfast in my bed. Ever.” He chuckled, which only served to irritate her even more. “Secondly, you need to keep out of my personal space. I have a child in this house, and I won’t have her seeing you behave in a lewd way towards her mother!”
At the last bit, Declan seemed to sober up some. “You’re right, darlin’. I’m sorry.”
She was so shocked by his immediately agreeing with her that she was almost sorry she had been so forceful. But she couldn't very well take it back now, and she had meant it. Just not forever. She huffed out a breath.
“I should think so,” she said pertly. She plucked the spatula out of his hand and running it underneath the closest pancake. She flipped it, and it landed perfectly cooked side up.
“You need to focus your intent,” Declan insisted as they stood side by side on the living room carpet. His hands were on his hips in the pose any good coach adopted when giving a pep talk at the bottom of the ninth. “Make sure ya thinkin’ clearly, and with determination.”
“I have never been more determined to not have broken glass all over my living room, or to avoid paying for a repairman to come out and fix it for me,” Rosie muttered sarcastically. Declan quirked a brow at her.
“Oh, aye,” he said with a disbelieving shake of his head, “You can make as much fun as ya like now. But at 3 am when the wind’s howling through your house, and you can’t sleep worth a wink, you’ll be sorry you didn’t pay more attention!”
“I have every confidence that you’ll fix it for me before it gets to that,” Rosie replied with a sassy grin, “seeing as you’ll be the one on the couch sweatin' your—what is it y’all call them? Bollocks? Yeah. Sweatin' your bollocks off.”
Declan smirked because he knew full well that she was right.
“I never thought I would ever say this,” he admitted, his eyes suddenly filled with a look that was somehow sexy and infuriating all at once. “But, you need to stop worrying about my bollocks and focus on the window.”
She sighed. The truth was, she wasn't convinced she could even do this, and she was avoiding starting so she wouldn't find out how powerless she was to stop Randy after all. She swallowed as she looked through the broken window at the shards of glass and shook her head. She took a deep breath.
“Say it again,” she said.
He lowered his voice. She wouldn't have pegged him as the patient sort. But while he was explaining the process of mending with magic for what must have been the fourth time, he showed no frustration.
“Focus on the window. You're restoring what once was. The glass shards are new things, they used to be the window, but they're somethin' different now. We want them to go back to bein' the window.”
He placed a hand on her shoulder, briefly interrupting her concentration, but then his soothing voice brought her focu
s back onto what she was doing. “Focus on the window.”
She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, steadying herself and centering in the moment. She pushed out with her mind, and her external consciousness hit the wall of the cottage. It began to send out fingers, gliding along the wood-paneling, feeling out the area. Rosie’s attention flickered for a moment, but then she strengthened her resolve.
“Feel the wall?” Declan asked quietly.
“Yes,” she huffed, trying to contain her intent while maintaining contact with the wall itself.
“Great. Now feel it for the window frame.”
Easier said than done, Rosie thought, as she began to run her ‘hands’ over the surface of the wall. When her senses felt the texture of the wall change from wood to unfinished glass, she stopped.
“Good,” Declan encouraged her. “Now hone your intent on the unbroken window, the way it was before.”
Rosie felt downright silly. This was an imagination game. So, anything she imagined would just happen? She didn't want that power. What if she imagined something horrible?
“You're not focused,” Declan chided.
She sighed. “This feels dumb,” she said, realizing even as she said it that it sounded like something Maggie would say. “Can I just pretend it's fixed?”
“You don't have to pretend anythin',” he corrected gently. “You remember the window. You spent all that time cleaning up the drapes around it, didn't ya? You must have loved it a little to do all that work to make it look nice.”
He moved to stand behind her, a hand on either shoulder, as though to aim her at the problem. His voice reverberated down the back of her neck as he coached her, and it did help her focus.
“Repairin' things is all about findin' a little love for it,” he told her. “For the way it used to be when it was whole, before it was broken. Try again.”
She did. This time, when she got to the large cut of glass, she felt a pang of heartbreak at the broken window. When she had first arrived at Fox Cottage, she had sat at that window and looked out the antique panes of glass into the front yard, where the old oak tree stood. How many moons had that window seen? How many conversations had it heard? She remembered being so grateful to the cottage for taking her and Maggie in that she would do anything to protect and brighten it. She felt her determination grow as she thought about how strong and beautiful the glass in the window had once been.
“Open your eyes,” Declan's voice interrupted, his hands disappearing from her shoulders.
She released the last of the breath she’d been holding in one big explosion of relief. She was afraid to, lest she find she hadn't done anything at all, but when she opened her eyes, her jaw dropped.
The window was repaired, and more than that, it was clear and clean, as it probably hadn't been since it was built some hundred years ago. The swirls in the glass that she had so admired were still there, but even thicker than before, stronger. The sunlight cast beautiful refracted circles of light on the floor and walls, twinkling in celebration of her accomplishment.
“It's beautiful,” she said in wonder.
Declan nodded. “Nice work,” he told her with a playful grin as he stepped in front of her. “We'll work on some breathing exercises next. Can’t have you passing out mid-cast, no matter how adorable you look when you’re concentratin’.”
She pinned him with a mock glare. “Well, I mean, I’m a baby witch, so I guess it will take time to work this all out. But thanks for teasin'!”
His grin disappeared. “Rosie, you need to understand how powerful you are. By the time we’ve unlocked ya true magical ability....” he trailed off, shaking his head as though awed. “You’re gonna be one of the most powerful witches on the planet.”
Rosie looked at him for a moment, her grey eyes wide with the implication of being a magical superstar. And she burst into laughter.
“So not only am I a Queen—”
“Witch Queen,” he corrected her.
“—Witch Queen,” she continued, “but I am also one of the most powerful witches in the entire world? These are actual words coming out of your mouth right now?”
The modernism was entirely lost on him. “You come from one of the most ancient magical bloodlines there are,” he said. “I’m not makin’ this up. You were given up by your parents because they were afraid of your ability.”
Rosie felt a chill, thinking back to that day on the dock when she had told him about being in foster care. “Wait—what? How do you know about—”
“Turns out they were right to be worried,” he added. “They were killed shortly afterwards. But luckily, the people who killed them never found you.”
“The homes I moved around to,” Rosie said carefully, not wanting to get emotional, “were hell on earth, and I would hardly call my experience lucky. And how do you know why my parents gave me up?”
He looked at her for what seemed like an age. “Because you and I were promised to each other a very, very long time ago.”
“What, like some kind of arranged marriage?” she spluttered, unable to believe what she was hearing.
“Exactly like that,” he said to her. She studied his expression for signs that he was joking but came up empty-handed.
“I’m not marrying someone I’m not in love with!” she exclaimed, fire in her belly. “—again,” she added before he could do it for her. “Besides, I don’t even know anything about you—or myself, apparently!”
He narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. She could feel her cheeks flushing as she thought back to her dream that morning. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, slipping his hand into the pocket of his jeans. When he drew it out again, he was holding something tiny. Something round that glinted in the light coming through her gorgeous new window.
A ring. It was a ring.
Holy shitballs, he was going to propose.
She watched him, horrified, until he bowed his head in respect to her.
“I am Áed. Son of Áine, protector of coróin an tsamhraidh.” He glanced up at her, looking for all the world like an ancient Celtic king throwing himself at the mercy of a fair maiden. She almost got carried away by the moment, before she realized that the fair maiden was supposed to be her. She only just managed to stop herself laughing in time for him to take her hand in his.
“You don’t have to marry me in a conventional sense,” he told her. “It’s not like we have a magical marriage registry office. But our binding will unite the people of my world and the people of yours. It will provide strength, protection, and prosperity on both sides of the union.”
“My people?” Rosie did laugh, then. “I don’t even know who my people are! I’m not even sure I want to if they’re content to let their alleged Queen go from foster home to foster home, and then wind up with a guy who treated her like shit for decades! And I don’t have to marry you at all—just so we’re clear on that,” she added for good measure.
Declan smiled up at her wistfully. “You’re the Queen of the Lost,” he said, “All the ones who don't have kingdoms or families to look after 'em. And you have suffered,” he agreed with her, “but not at the hands or even the knowledge of your people. They don’t know you exist yet. They just know you’re out there somewhere.”
Then he held up the ring for her to see. It was a plain simple band of hammered copper that parted in the middle. “This is a promise,” he told her. “Of my protection, faithfulness, and fealty to you as your betrothed King and consort.”
She frowned, already seeing a problem. “It’s broken,” she announced. “What kind of promise is made with a ring that doesn’t go all the way ‘round?”
“It’s not broken,” he chuckled. “The promise starts now, he pointed to one side of the ring, “and is complete when we’re joined.” He pointed to the other side of the ring.
She quirked a brow, not buying it. “What happens to the promise then?”
He shook his head with a smile. “New ring, new promise. Will y
ou accept it?”
Protection. Faithfulness. Fealty. Who couldn’t use a little – or a lot?—of those things? But Rosie had gone down this track before. She’d come to learn that wearing a guy’s ring might as well mean that you’re his property. And then an idea came to her.
“I’ll make you a counter-offer,” she told him. She took him by his free hand and tugging him up until he stood towering over her once more.
He looked down at her, curiosity burning in his gaze. “Let’s hear it.”
She licked her lips and looked down to stare at the ring he still clasped. “I’ll wear this ring as a symbol of our growing friendship. And in return for your protection, faithfulness, and fealty as my friend,” she then lifted her eyes to meet his. “I offer you those same things in friendship myself.”
He studied her for a long moment. The corners of his eyes crinkled in a way that told her he might very well laugh in her face. But the mirth spread across his face, and soon she was basking in the glow of his warm, boyish grin.
“Deal,” he said, and he reached for her hand, slipping the ring onto the fourth finger of her right hand. The same tingles that had prickled her skin when he had passed her the cherry from Maggie’s ice cream sundae ran out of the ring and through her skin, coursing through veins in her arm.
“Whoa,” she breathed, taking her arm back and holding it up to look at it in wonder. “What was that?”
“A protection spell,” he told her. “You’re a way off being able to conjure one of them yourself yet, so this one will do until then.”
Relief washed over her, feeling like the healing waters of her bath the other night. A protection spell from someone who could do magic, instead of her half-working hearth magic, was a stellar improvement.
“Thanks,” Rosie said gratefully. She held her ring up to look at it in the late afternoon sunlight streaming through the window. And then a thought occurred to her.