Before I drove him off by threatening him. He wanted something out of you that night, Jorie. I don’t think Dominion went after only one partner, and I’m not sure that Horace thing found Neil after he left your house. But there was no use in even broaching that possibility. “If he hadn’t gone running off without backup, we could have figured it out without anyone getting hurt.”
“And if I didn’t go running off without backup—”
Christ. The woman was determined to blame herself, but Caleb wasn’t willing to go that far. Ever. “You didn’t, you were taken.” It burst out of him, harsh and definite. “You had a Watcher with you, you did everything right, Jorie. You made the best choices you could, and I’ll tell you as many times as you need to hear it.” He took a deep breath; inspiration struck. Here goes nothing. “Neil would tell you the same thing. He’d be proud of you for closing the case.”
All the starch went out of her at once. She sagged against him, and Caleb thought he’d hurt her before he realized she was relieved. For once, he’d said exactly what she needed to hear.
He’d do it again, too. Over and over, for as long as he could. For as long as the gods let him stay breathing.
“You’re too good for me,” she said, ruefully, almost too quiet for even his tanak-sharp ears. “I know you wanted to . . . do something to Sol. But you didn’t, because he didn’t deserve it.” Then, she added the crowning absurdity. “You’re a good man too, Caleb.”
He could have argued, but she didn’t need that right now. “I’m glad you think so.” That, at least, was the complete truth. I hope you never find out otherwise.
She leaned away, just enough to tip her chin up and examine him. “I know so.” She sounded very sure, and Caleb lost every battle he’d ever thought of fighting.
He leaned down, and their mouths met. Finally, he did what he’d been wanting to ever since he saw her, and kissed her breathless. She didn’t protest; instead, Jorie pressed against him as if she wanted him too, as if he wasn’t the stupid Watcher who had almost lost her.
Never again, he promised silently, not caring if she understood. When she broke away to breathe, the words spilled out of him, like they’d been waiting all along.
“I mean it, witch. I can’t wait to see what you’ve got planned for week two.” He pressed his lips against her temple, kissed her cheek. “But first, how about some lunch?”
“It’s a good start,” she agreed, solemnly, and her fingers were in his hair. She pulled his head down, and kissed him again.
finis
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LILITH SAINTCROW lives in Vancouver, Washington, with her children, dogs, cat, a library for wayward texts, and assorted other strays.
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