Thomas’s expression hardened slightly, but not with regret. Never regret.
The fire had burned low, its embers casting a flickering glow across the clearing. The acrid scent of charred parchment lingered in the air, mixing with the damp earth and the distant rustle of retreating footsteps. It was over. The Order had been driven back, and for now, they were safe.
But Bridget couldn’t move.
“You were never supposed to be part of this,” he said roughly.
“And yet here we are,” she whispered.
He shook his head, his jaw tightening. “I swore I would never let you get caught in my world. That I would protect you from it.”
Bridget let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You think you can protect me from myself? Her voice held a hint of bitter amusement. “You’ve no idea what that even means.”
His lips quirked, but there was no amusement in it. Just heat.
Then suddenly, he was right there, too close, too much, not enough.
“Bridget,” he murmured. Her name on his lips sent a shiver down her spine.
Her breath hitched. She wanted to fight him, to tell him she wasn’t ready for this, that loving him would be her undoing, but she couldn’t.
Because she was already undone, she was already his.
His hands came up, framing her face, rough fingertips brushing her skin as if he couldn’t believe she was real. “I tried,” he murmured. “I tried to keep my distance. I tried to stay away, to be what you needed—”
“You’re what I need.” The words slipped out before she could stop them.
Thomas sucked in a breath, his grip tightening ever so slightly. His gaze was fierce, searching, disbelieving. “Say it again.”
Bridget lifted her chin, letting him see everything she had tried to hide. “I need you.” Her voice was quieter now, the fight draining out of her. “I love you, Thomas.”
The words left her lips before she could reclaim them, and in the silence that followed, she felt something shift inside her. No fear. Only truth.
A ragged sound escaped him, something between relief and surrender.
And then he kissed her. It was not a soft kiss, not tentative or questioning. It was fierce, desperate, edged with everything they had held back for too long.
Bridget rose onto her toes, fisting her hands in his coat, pulling him closer. His arms wound around her, solid and unyielding, as if letting her go was no longer an option.
The world blurred. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the distance, the night stretched on. But here, at this moment, there was only them.
When they finally pulled apart, Thomas tucked her into his side.
“This changes everything,” he murmured.
Bridget smiled, finally unafraid of what that meant.
“No,” she whispered. “This changes nothing. Because I was always yours.”
“We should go back,” he said.
She nodded, but before she turned, she caught his wrist, squeezing it lightly. She released his wrist, letting her fingers trail away before turning toward the path.
With one last lingering look, they stepped into the night, leaving the clearing and the danger behind them.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Barrington sat atthe wide mahogany desk in the study, the single candle casting flickering shadows across the neat stacks of parchment. The house was still, hushed with the weight of everything that had transpired. The confrontation with the Order had been a victory, but it had cost them. Thomas and Bridget had not yet returned, and while Barrington suspected their delay had nothing to do with danger, he knew the next few hours would be crucial.
