Page 118 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
CHAPTER 38
Lochlan
“I KEEP PULLING THE FERTILITY CARD, WHAT DOES IT MEAN?” —THEGREENWITCH1969
Becket was leaning against the windowsill in Lochlan’s office, one hand dramatically pressed to his chest like he’d been sitting there, neglected, for hours instead of thirty minutes. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Of course.”
“What did I say?”
“No idea.”
“Dude.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Lochlan muttered, eyes still on the diary spread across his desk. Becket had been here for a while, but Lochlan had only half-registered the conversation. His focus had been wrapped up in restoring the final pages.
“I see your wife more than you.”
Lochlan glanced over, one brow raised. “Nia mentioned something about you and Ivy?”
Becket sighed and reached for the carved paperweight on the windowsill, turning it slowly in his hands. His thumb traced the edges with too much focus, like he was stalling. “Just friends.”
“That’s all you want, isn’t it? Just friends and a roll in the sheets. You’ve never wanted more before.”
“And you never thought you’d end up married. Never thought you’d confront your mother or sister.”
Lochlan’s expression sobered. He had told Becket everything about Dover. “Things change.”
The look Becket gave him in return could only be described as: no shit, asshole.
Lochlan leaned back. “You know, a few weeks ago, I was desperately trying to figure out how to keep Nia. Are you saying…”
“I’m not saying anything.” Becket nudged at the corner of the rug with his shoe. “My sister gave Ivy a reading. Told her to stop chasing relationships when she hasn’t learned to love herself.”
“Zora’s a powerful seer. She’s probably right.”
Becket threw his hands in the air. “Why did I even come here?”
“Beck,” Lochlan said gently, “I think you might also be looking for the wrong kind of love.”
Becket squinted at him. “I don’t feel comfortable taking advice from a man who’s keeping a massive secret from the wife who may or may not still want to annul their marriage.”
Lochlan didn’t argue. He turned back to the diary on his worktable and slid the final page into place. Magic stirred through the paper like breath—soot and water damage faded beneath his fingers. The fibers healed. The words became clear. They now showed a near-perfect account of a life a daughter and man still mourned. Once the next volume was delivered and repaired, the record Nia’s mother had made of her life would be complete. Then, Lochlan would share these with Nia and tell her the truth—about the diaries, about her father, about everything.
“I know,” he said quietly. The threads of deceit he’d spun felt too tangled up with everything else he had with Nia. If he unwound them now, he was afraid everything else would unravel, too.
Becket stepped closer and gave his shoulder a quick squeeze, just as his phone buzzed. “Hey, Pixie, one sec.”
Lochlan arched a brow. Pixie was Becket’s nickname for Ivy, and he said it with a wide grin. The pout from moments ago vanished like it had never existed.
His poor friend. Lochlan knew the feeling too well.
And Becket wasn’t wrong. Lochlan had no room to judge, not with what he was still hiding.
He followed Becket out, locking the office behind him. By the time they reached the front door, a Videt courier was already climbing the steps.
Becket waved, phone still pressed to his ear as he rounded the corner, heading toward a tunnel entrance.
