Page 90 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
Lochlan had spent years believing Wulfric had taken an interest in him simply because he saw potential, because he’d cared. But the doubt that had been gnawing at Lochlan, the feeling something wasn’t quite right, suddenly felt undeniable.
“I’ve studied the history of this town, of the Videt, and it states that there was an accident within the Cabot family, leaving you the new Sword.”
Wulfric nodded. “A very bloody accident.”
Lochlan had read the real accounts, the truth buried in that first diary he had repaired. The history books said there’d been a poisoning at a wedding, blamed on a grieving grandmother who couldn’t bear what her family had become, and had died of natural causes a few days later. Wulfric hadn’t drunk the wine, which left him the sole survivor—and the new Sword, with a new life and wife.
But that wasn’t what had happened. Wulfric had killed them. All of them. To save Luna. And as far as he knew, they had never married.
“Nia doesn’t know this.”
It wasn’t a question.
“No.”
Frustration burned in Lochlan’s gut. This man had saved Nia’s mother from something horrific, had torn down a corrupt and coercive lineage and built something better in its place. But the official records barely scratched the surface. The truth—the messy, complicated truth—was locked in the pages Lochlan had pieced back together.
“You let her think the worst of you,” Lochlan said, his voice tight.
“I did,” Wulfric admitted. “If she left my protection, she needed to do so entirely on her own, as she has done. Any affiliation with me is a liability for her.” He leaned back slightly, as if considering something. “I believed she needed to be entirely under my protection and supervision, or entirely outside and apart from it, if she was to be safe. But now I see how strong she is. How capable she has become. And I see a different path ahead.”
One that required Lochlan and Nia to be married. Someone beloved by regulars and witches, someone with ties to human royalty.
Lochlan swallowed hard. “Was this your plan from the start?” His voice was calm, but a dangerous edge sharpened each word. “When you gave me that scholarship, were you grooming me for Nia?”
Wulfric studied him for a moment. “I offered you a chance to build something for yourself. You chose to take it.”
Lochlan’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “That’s not an answer.”
“Tell me, Lochlan—if you’d known where this road would lead, would you have chosen a different path?”
Of course he wouldn’t have.
If Lochlan had never come to Stella Rune, never taken the Videt’s offer, he wouldn’t have met Becket. He wouldn’t have found a passion for restoration. He wouldn’t have met Nia.
Wulfric’s lips curved into a small smile. “That’s what I thought.” After a beat, he said, almost idly, “You haven’t told her yet, have you? About the diaries.”
Lochlan’s jaw clenched. “You told me not to.” His voice was rough with something close to exhaustion. “Because you want to tell her the truth?”
“When the time is right.”
Lochlan exhaled sharply. “Goddess help me, you’re frustrating.”
Wulfric chuckled. “Now, about Dover. How long will you be gone?”
“A week, I think.”
“Three days.”
Lochlan blinked. “I didn’t realize this was up for discussion.”
“If it wasn’t up for discussion, you shouldn’t have come here.”
Lochlan exhaled slowly, steadying himself. “It’s almost a full day there by train. How about I check in with you after day three?”
“Fine, fine,” Wulfric said, waving him off.
Lochlan turned to leave, eager to put distance between himself and this conversation, but before he reached the door, Wulfric’s voice caught him again.
