Page 7 of Demon's Bride

“But—”

I hold up one hand to silence her. It’s not my finest moment, I’m well aware, but with Allie’s hushed admissions and her own fragile thread of magick, the situation becomes clear. That Esme Hawthorn left her own daughter ignorant and vulnerable because she underestimated Allie’s power? I feel no need to extend even an ounce more courtesy to this woman.

“Allie,” Esme breathes. “Darling.”

Allie tenses and I’m almost ready to growl another warning, but my mate speaks first.

“It’s alright,” Allie says, voice barely audible over the night breeze through the forest. “There’s nothing that can be done about it now.”

She speaks true. There’s nothing to be done but go forward with it, though the confirmation my quaking bride knows nothing of what is expected from her in the demon realm, nothing of what waits for her this night, makes me feel ill.

“I’m sorry,” Esme says to her daughter, and I do feel a sliver of sympathy at the sorrow in the woman’s voice. A small sliver.

Allie reaches forward and pulls her mother into an embrace, and there are tears streaked down the older woman’s face when they part. Allie reaches up to wipe them away.

“Love you, mom,” she whispers.

“I love you too, Allison.”

Esme doesn’t let go right away. No, she smooths both her hands over her daughter’s hair, squeezes her shoulders, spends long moments looking at her like she’s memorizing every detail of her face.

“Be strong,” she tells Allie. “And if you feel yourself waning, come back through the Veil. We’ll be here to help you.”

The comment raises my hackles. Already she’s assuming Allie will fail? Leaving her with this dire warning when she’s already so clearly afraid?

A warning growl rises low in my throat, drawing the startled attention of both women.

Esme squares her shoulders and looks at me with all the haughty scorn due to her in her position as High Priestess. “Take care of her,” she says in a voice like ice. “Protect her.”

“It’s an insult that you think I would do anything less.”

Still, she doesn’t back down, doesn’t show a moment of weakness as she gives her daughter one last hug and murmurs something low in her ear that I can’t quite make out. With that, Esme Hawthorn turns slowly away, looking back once over her shoulder before she disappears through the tree line.

And then I’m finally alone with my bride.

Allie’s shaking grows more pronounced, enough so that despite clenching both her fists and biting her teeth together, there’s nothing she can do to stop the tremors that roll through her.

Is she cold? I take in the outfit she has on, noticing it clearly for the first time. She’s wearing a lavender dress printed with pale cream flowers that falls to her knee, and some kind of light, pale sweater on top of it that doesn’t seem like nearly enough protection for one fragile human on a chilly night like tonight.

No, I make myself realize, not cold. Not with the scent of her fear still wafting up between us. I’d prefer if shewerecold, I could do something about that. This? This fear of hers? I don’t know how to even begin to assuage it.

“Breathe, Allison,” I tell her.

I want to touch her, to reach out and comfort her, but I somehow suspect that would only make it worse.

“Allie,” she says. “You can call me Allie.”

“Allie,” I echo, liking the way her name feels on my lips. “Everything will be fine.”

She laughs, the sound more than a little unhinged. “Sure. Sure it will be.”

We both fall silent. The only sounds between us are the wind through the trees and the faint call of spring creatures in the night. Well, that, and the raspy sound of Allie’s panicked breathing.

Though we come from different realms, the gulf between us is wider than I ever could have expected. My heart drops as I take in Allie’s strained expression, the way she holds her shoulders near her ears, the tremors that continue to rock her, the lingering sweet smell of her fear.

“My middle name is Dane,” I tell her.

The absolute perplexity on her face is sharp enough to cut through her fear, and almost enough to draw a laugh from me. “What?”

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