There were photos that an ordinary human would have assumed were digital paintings, but he knew better. Hayley leaning against the side of a great golden griffin, his beak preening her hair. Two sea dragons sporting in the waves. A unicorn glimmering through a winter-bare wood.
And one that looked like a misprint, an error. Just a yellow-white blur streaking over a faded blue, overexposed, all the colors blown out.
Rose came to his elbow, following the direction of his gaze. “You remember that day?”
He touched the glass over the photo, carefully. It had been her fortieth birthday. A picnic in the countryside, sunlight caught in her hair. Dozens of shifters, a little drunk, a little silly, safely out of sight of human eyes. He’d asked her what she wanted as a present.
“I warned you it wouldn’t come out,” he said, looking at the bolt of fire across the sky.
“It’s my favorite anyway.” She didn’t say anything for a moment, gazing at the photo of the Phoenix. “How long, Ash?”
He knew what she was asking. “Always. Since the day we met.”
Her breath sighed out of her. “Ten years…and you never said anything.”
“Neither did you.”
She slanted her eyes at him, a flash of the fire that he knew so well. “I did eventually.”
“Yes.” He couldn’t delay any longer. “Which is why we need to talk.”
She sighed again. “Wait a moment.”
He stood back, a misplaced, foreign presence in her cozy home, as she dragged her single dining chair over so that it was opposite the armchair. She gestured him to sit down, but didn’t take her own place. Instead, she went to a low cabinet, crouching to rummage around inside.
“This sounds,” she said, emerging with a tawny bottle and a pair of tumblers, “like a conversation that might require a stiff drink.” She hesitated. “Or do you still want the usual?”
He’d tried to numb himself with alcohol, a long time ago, when he’d been younger and the self-inflicted wound still fresh. It hadn’t worked. He’d avoided it ever since, the taste forever associated with bitter grief and hatred.
He took the glass from her anyway. “This is not a usual situation.”
She poured a generous measure for both of them. He knew the bottle—Scotch, from Griff’s family distillery up in the Highlands. Made for shifters, by shifters, with a punch that could fell a full-grown bear.
He knocked it back in a single swallow. Smooth smoky sweetness. Ashes and rage and emptiness.
When he lowered the glass, Rose was watching him, her expression troubled. She put her own drink down on the coffee table between them, untouched.
“You’re starting to scare me, Ash,” she said.
“Good.” His voice came out hoarse, his chest still burning with the unaccustomed whiskey. “You should be scared of me.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Not of you, ridiculous man. For you.” She leaned her elbows on her knees, her whole body intently focused on him. “Whatever this secret is, you’ve been keeping it for a long time. And I think it’s been eating you alive.”
Now that the time had come to speak, his throat had closed up. He said nothing.
A little hesitantly, she reached out. He couldn’t bring himself to pull away as she folded her fingers around his. For once, she was the warmer one. Her touch burned like a brand against his cold skin.
“Tell me, Ash,” she whispered.
His time had run out, decades ago. He had been living on stolen grace ever since.
But he couldn’t lie to her any longer.
He forced himself to meet her eyes. Her beautiful, trusting eyes, even now looking at him with nothing but love and openness.
“I need to tell you about your mate,” he said.
Chapter 10