Page 137 of The Unfinished Line

And then I was down on my belly in the wet grass—because who was I actually kidding?—and army crawling after her.

By the time I wormed my way out the opposite side, Dillon was up on her feet, crutching across the vacant courtyard.

“Oh, no you don’t,” I laughed, springing after her. “You owe me. Big time!”

Faster than should have been possible, she disappeared into a narrow stairwell, taking the spiraled steps two by two in a manner suggesting she knew every nook and cranny, turret and alcove of the tattered castle. I followed to the upper level, guided only by the click of her gait and brush of my fingers across the moss-covered walls.

I’d nearly caught her when I stumbled through the highest threshold and suddenly found myself suspended in the air, the waxing moonlight through the demolished roof revealing the ground forty feet below. Dillon laughed at my moment of panic as I tried to determine why we weren’t falling, but before it had fully processed that we were standing on the transparent floor of a glass viewing platform, her mouth was on mine, and I no longer cared.

Fall. Float. Fracture into fragments absorbed by the surrounding stone—it didn’t matter. I could think of nothingbeyond the way she grabbed me, the intensity with which I knew she wanted me. The ferocity with which I needed her.

She walked me backward until my body collided with rough-edged Sutton stone, my hands finding the intricate tracery of a majestic Gothic window. It occurred to me, as I helped strip layers of winter clothing, that the unforgiving earth of the outer courtyard lay an unreasonable distance below us. I didn’t know how admirably the stone mullions of eight-hundred-year-old architecture withstood the elements of time, but I couldn’t bring myself to worry. So be it if tomorrow morning headlines across the globe readSand Seekers actress; dead at 25. Found mostly nude—mostly, only due to the fact that my jeans were caught around my ankles, one tennis shoe still in place—after rapturous rendezvous resulted in apparent fall from haunted castle window. Details to follow.

When it came to the inevitability of dying, at least this way led the current list of choices.

Impatient, she turned me away from her, tangling one hand in my hair while the other sought the remaining inconvenience of clasps and buttons. I could feel her mouth against my ear, the staggered rasp of both our breathing, the weight of her healing body supported against me.

There was nothing gentle in her touch. Nothing delicate. No lingering kisses or trailing fingertips. In the darkness, with our bodies pressed against the window alcove, it was little more than the pent-up exchange of heartache. The expulsion of months of frustration. A sharing of hurts. Of healing. Of longing. Of yearning.

I fought the urge to close my eyes, finding the caressing breeze from the bay erotic against my exposed body. It was entirely prurient, knowing we were somewhere we were not meant to be, aware that a stone’s throw from the dark parklands, the glowing homes of Mumbles were preparing to sit down forChristmas dinner. All one had to do was look up, to scan their eyes to the highest window in the castle. Would they see the shadows, find the desperate silhouettes searching for cathartic absolution, lost in one another?

Relenting to the feel of her traveling mouth and urgency of her persistent hands, I finally closed my eyes, giving up all thoughts of Mumbles, of castles, of the past and future. I found myself only in the present. Only in the throes of desire. Of the shedding of uncertainty that she still wanted me.

Later, Dillon laughed when I wondered aloud how many women had been fucked in that exact spot throughout the centuries. We were lying on the renovated glass floor, surrounded by the remnants of stately Gothic architecture, the stars burning overhead through the collapsed ceiling.

“Probably fewer than you think. For one, I imagine an altar once took up the majority of this space. And two, I believe sex in a chapel was deemed an explicit act of blasphemy.”

I side-eyed her. “An entire castle at our disposal and you chose to lead me to the chapel?”

She shrugged. “There’s no better view than from Alina’s window.”

“Alina?” Scanning our surroundings, I noticed for the first time the stone-cut aumbry and well-preserved piscina, the obvious hallmarks of a Catholic place of worship. “Alina—as in Castle Ghost Alina?”

“One in the same.”

I wasn’t religious. What I knew about Catholicism stemmed from playing Aldonza in a high school production ofMan of la Mancha. I wouldn’t have thought twice about putting a confessional booth to good use in the modern world. But igniting the wrath of a devotional medieval spirit? No thanks.

I started to push onto my elbow, but Dillon dropped an arm across my waist, barring me from rising. “Relax. You said to give the ol’ girl a thrill. Who knows—maybe she liked watching?”

“If you’re listening to this, Alina,” I teased in a stage whisper, “please remember, it’s her soul you want, not mine.”

“She was imprisoned in the Tower of London while her husband was drawn and quartered by Edward II—I imagine we’re low on her list when it comes to revenge.”

“Your pillow talk is a bit rusty.” I flipped on my side, flinching as my bare skin found the glass platform beneath our discarded pile of clothing. It was getting colder, the breeze picking up from the water, stirring the Welsh flag that flew atop the gatehouse. “Why do you know so much about this place?”

“I volunteered here a few summers when I was in school.”

“Ah ha,” I gave her a knowing smile, “so Lady Alina’s no stranger to your late-night dalliances.”

Her laugh was tighter than I expected as she brushed my teasing off, sitting up to rifle her jeans pockets. “I have something for you. I wanted to give it to you when we were alone.”

I sat up, curious. Earlier that morning, she and Seren had given me a joint gift—a hardbound first edition of theSand Seekerstrilogy. The set had to have cost a fortune—a near-impossible collector’s item to find, especially now, with the frenzy of the movies. I’d been thrilled with the thoughtfulness behind the present. In turn, I’d given her an out-of-print signed copy ofSports Illustratedwith her all-time favorite triathlete, Michellie Jones, on the cover. I’d hunted the magazine down on eBay and spent a week stalking the auction lot, finally waking up at two AM in Japan to be certain I was the highest bidder.

In the end, the decades-old publication cost me a whopping twelve dollars—two dollars for the magazine and ten dollars for shipping. The paltry price had made me feel guilty. But the lookon Dillon’s face when she opened the package reassured me the value of a gift was rarely in the cost of the purchase.

“It’s, um…” She fished a tiny tissue-wrapped parcel into the palm of her hand, tugging on a bow of hemp twine. “Maybe it’s weird. I don’t know. I…” Struggling to get the knot undone, she grew more flustered, until I reached out and swept it from her hand.

“It’s my gift. I get to open it.” I pulled out my phone and turned on its flashlight, undoing the string handily.

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