“I can’t give you what love asks for.”
She shook her head as the temper in her eyes dimmed to pity. “Moron, love doesn’t ask. It just is. Deal with it.”
“Riley,” he said when she started out, and she turned back.
“Don’t tell me you care about me. That’s cheap. That’s beneath us both.”
“There are reasons I can’t—”
“Did I ask you for anything back?”
She’d asked for nothing, he thought. And what was he supposed to do with that? “No.”
“Then leave it. Just leave it. I told you because whatever else I weighed in, I don’t like regrets. I’m not going to regret telling you what I feel. Don’t make me feel less for feeling it.”
He let her go—that was best for both of them. But he knew in three centuries, with all he’d done, all he’d experienced, she was the only woman who’d managed to turn him inside out.
• • •
She slept well. She’d said her piece, Riley thought, solved the internal issue nagging at her by saying it. So she’d thrown off that weight and worry.
He hadn’t hurt her, and she’d expected him to. After all, she’d never been in love before. In lust, in fairly serious like, but she’d never slipped over that very essential line.
No, he hadn’t hurt her, Riley considered as she dressed for a rugged cliff climb. She was a smart, educated woman, reasonably attractive, healthy, well traveled. If Doyle couldn’t see and accept love from her, that was absolutely his loss.
She’d never dreamed of weddings and marriage and happy-ever-after. Not that she stood against any of that. But she led a full and interesting life—even before waging war against a god. If she survived that war, she fully intended to continue leading a full and interesting life.
Doyle could be a part of it, or not. Choice entirely his.
But the priority of now outweighed the priority of maybe later. She strapped on her guns—don’t leave home without them—clipped on her knife sheath, and took the back stairs to the kitchen.
Coffee—number one priority—scented the air, along with grilling meat, toasted bread.
“Omelettes,” Sasha told Riley as she skillfully folded one in the pan. “Loaded. Annika set the table before I got down so Sawyer could take her down for a quick swim.”
She’d built a cave out of napkins, Riley noted, set it on a stand above a flowing blue napkin obviously representing the sea. Inside the cave she’d placed six figures made out of pipe cleaners. They circled a dragon made of the same that held a small white stone.
“Let’s consider that a prophecy.” Riley poured coffee, and decided to take advantage of the moment. “I told Doyle I’m in love with him.”
“Oh!” Quickly, Sasha slid the omelette onto a platter. Her smile faded. “Oh.”
“Listen, I didn’t expect him to sweep me up like the studly hero in a novel. I just needed to say it so thinking about saying it—or not—wasn’t clogging up my brain. I did, so it’s clear.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much, but one of the standouts was how I must be conflating—conflating—sex and all the wedding talk. That was insulting.”
“Yes, it really is. To your emotions and your intellect.”
“Boom.” Riley tapped a finger on Sasha’s shoulder. “Mostly he was stunned and annoyed—more heavy on the stunned. I’m not going to hold the stunned against him. We had a deal.”
“Oh, for—”
“We did,” Riley insisted. “I reneged.”
Sasha made a ppfft sound. “As if you can make a deal about love.”
“I get that. But I didn’t get that when I made the deal. It’s my first time in the arena.” With a shrug, she hooked her thumb in her front pocket. “Anyway, by the time we’d finished up I felt sorry for him because of what he doesn’t get. Love’s precious, isn’t it? It’s not something you can find by digging, searching, reading. It just is, or it just isn’t.”