Page 74 of Thorns from the Fall

I think I always knew that the hateful thing he said to me in the cemetery came from fear of the emotions he didn’t want to contend with. But I’ve spent so much of my life feeling like my mental illness was too much. That nothing about me was worth wading through it.

So even though my heart had raged and thrashed inside my body, my mind saw it as just another repeated pattern. Too much and not enough. I’d known from the beginning things would implode one way or another. And wasn’t it easier if I could blame him for it?

“I wouldn’t have made you love me and then destroyed you for it,” he says, but there’s no anger in his voice. In fact, he leansforward, allowing his lips to brush mine. I nearly start to cry over the intimacy of his touch. Of his unspoken admission. That he loved me and I ruined him.

“I almost told you,” I say, and he tugs me into his lap. I wrap my legs around his waist and my arms around his neck. He presses his forehead to mine, and I decide it’s finally time for explanations when he asks for them.

“When?”

“At your mother’s grave.”

“And why didn’t you?”

No matter how beautiful the fractured parts might be, I’m not about to risk everything for someone so broken.

“You know why. Telling you the truth would’ve been a risk you didn’t seem willing to take. For all I knew, you would’ve killed me,” I say, and he doesn’t like that answer. He tugs at my hair, tipping my head back before kissing me fiercely. His beard rubs across my skin, and I love the raw sensation of it. He breaks away, frowning at me. His fangs have extended, and he’s angry.

“After swearing myself to you, Gwyn? You still thought that was an option for me? What about when I told you the truth in the dungeons, before my father came down?”

“You think telling you then would’ve hurt you less? By then, there was no going back.”

He uses both hands to grip my face, whispering his question against my lips.

“Did you love me?” he asks, point blank, and I close my eyes.

“Yes,” I say, unwilling to admit I haven’t stopped despite the odds stacked against us.

“Then why didn’t you say it back?” he asks, referring to the moment he’d screamed my name and told me he loved me.

I tilt my head and sit back, giving him a rueful smile. I wanted to tell him—so badly. But I knew what I had to do at thatpoint, as Bjorn dragged me up the stairs. It would’ve just been one more thing for Roman to question.

“Would you have believed me? Once you saw what I did to your father, to your coven, would you have believed it?”

He works his jaw, and the furrow between his brows is a harsh line.

“No.”

His eyes dart all over—eyes to lips then back to my eyes—and I think he’s going to kiss me again. I want him to so badly, but I need him to know. Before I betray him once more and finish myself off. Before I take away this painful predicament he’s found himself in. There will be no hesitation or lack of resolve if I’m not here to confuse him. But he needs to know.

“Would you believe me now?”

He rolls his lips inward, and his chest heaves. “Should I?”

Unable to speak the words, I nod, tears filling my eyes. Within a beat, he’s standing up, hands cupping my ass while my legs wrap tighter around him. He kisses me, and it’s frantic. Violent, even, as he bites my lip. I match his passion, hands sliding up his jaw, my fingertips pushing into his silky tresses.

I decide I owe him the gift of clarity after all of my deceit.

“I haven’t stopped loving you, Roman. When you turned me, I knew I was in too deep, and I’m sorry I never told you the truth.”

“Gwyn,” he says, voice thick with emotion. He kisses me again, dragging his mouth across my flesh. Lips meet my chin, my jaw, down my neck. I think he doesn’t want me to see him, and I don’t know if I blame him. For all of Roman’s harsh words and actions, this is who he is at his core. Tenderness doesn’t come easy to him, but once it’s earned, it’s like walking on air.

It can get addicting if I’m not too careful.

“I think loving you will kill me,” he murmurs against my collarbone, and everything within me begins to ache. There’snothing I can say, so I wrap my arms and legs tighter around him, and I can feel his hardness prodding at my ass. He’s walking us past the kitchen into the hallway toward the primary bedroom, and I break the silence.

“If my mess doesn’t swallow you whole first,” I say, attempting lightness as he picks a path across discarded clothing—dirty or clean, who knows. After the honesty we’ve exchanged tonight, I don’t know if there’s any room for more sincerity. Or maybe I’m just deflecting, but if I am, so is Roman. My foot hits a box, dumping the contents onto the floor at the foot of the bed.

“It’s too late for that, sweetheart,” he says. “It doesn’t matter. I need a bed for what I plan to do to you.”

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