Darknight(28)

This time he did pause. His eyes met mine, and I felt a little shiver go through me. There was something naked in those green depths, worry and regret, and something more. Longing?

“I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I’m sorry we took you away from your home, from your family.”

The words it’s all right rose to my lips, but I didn’t say them. As much as I felt myself softening toward him, what his brother had done was definitely not all right.

“Well, we have a tree now. I don’t care if it’s commercial and Christian and not what witches are supposed to do — I like Christmas trees.”

“I had a feeling. That’s why I got it.”

Once again our eyes locked, and I could almost feel the flow of energy between us, the pull of the bond so strong that I took a half-step forward before I realized what I was doing. I froze, then forced myself to drag my gaze away from his and made myself look up at the clock.

After clearing my throat, I said, “I need to get back in the kitchen.”

He blinked. “Sure. I’ll just finish with these lights and then come open the wine. We’ll do the ornaments after we eat.”

“Sounds good.”

Pulse racing, I went back to check on the duck. Bending down to peer inside the oven gave me a chance to at least attempt to pull myself together. I’d known this would be hard, but I hadn’t realized how hard. It was easy for Sydney to tell me to ignore all the “Montague and Capulet stuff,” as she put it. She hadn’t been raised to think of the Wilcoxes as the big bad. I wanted Connor; I wasn’t going to deny that. But I knew what a break it would be with everything I’d been taught if I gave myself to him. I could only wonder what cruel fate had determined that he should be the bond of my blood, the consort to make me complete.

I took a deep breath, then another. The fate of the clans did not have to be decided tonight. I just needed to pull myself together and get this dinner finished.

Which I did, letting my training with Aunt Rachel kick in so that I managed to get the duck, the cherry sauce, the wild rice, the salad, and the rolls all to the table more or less when they were supposed to. Connor had turned down the lights and lit the candles at the table, and the fairy lights on the tree and the warm flicker of the fireplace in the living room only enhanced the feeling of quiet, of intimacy. We were in a little island of warmth and comfort. Just the two of us.

That was the problem.

We both sat down, and Connor paused. “I suppose this is where people are supposed to say grace or something.”

“Probably,” I agreed. “But I wouldn’t exactly call this a normal Christmas dinner, so….”

“You’re right, of course.” He picked up his napkin and put it in his lap. “Even so….” After stopping for a second, as if to gather his thoughts, he said, “I’d just like to say thank you for what you’ve done since you came here. These dinners, and….” Once again his words trailed off. He seemed almost nervous, which for him felt out of character to me. I’d seen him diffident, closed off, quiet, but never nervous. “‘Grace’ is actually a good word for it. You’ve shown a lot of grace these past few days. So thank you for that.”

I stared at him, words seeming to flee my mind as I tried to think of a way to respond. Never had anyone said anything like that to me. Finally I managed, “Well, you have, too. You’ve made this all…bearable.”

There went the eyebrow again. “Bearable?”

“Oh, you know what I mean. It could have been horrible, but it’s been…all right.”

“All right?”

Now I could tell he was teasing me. “I am not going to say that I’ve had a wonderful time being locked in your apartment away from my family, Connor Wilcox.” As I said this, I kept my tone light so he’d — hopefully — know I was teasing him right back.

His face went still, though, and I knew I’d said the wrong thing. “If I could have sent you back, I would have.”

And would I have wanted to go? A few days ago I would have known exactly how to answer that question. Now, though….

“I know you would have, Connor.” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “I know this isn’t your fault. I just wish I knew what you expect me to do.”

“I don’t expect you to do anything.” Finally he reached out for the bottle of wine and poured some into my glass. To my surprise, it was a soft, deep pink. “Anything more than you already have. Actually, I didn’t even expect that.”

“I haven’t done that much,” I said. “I made some tamales.”