Page 70 of Hand-Fasting and Other Hazards
The stage curtains swept shut and mercifully blocked out the crowd.
Elder Patrick’s attention shifted between them—first to Lochlan, who looked concerned, and then Nia, who probably looked like she was about to set the entire damn place on fire.
“Prince Lochlan,” Patrick said smoothly. “Pyronia Cabot.”
“Nia,” she corrected flatly.
He nodded once. “Blessed full moon to the both of you.”
She glared at him. Right. Blessed full moon, sure.
“We have less than a half hour to prepare you,” Patrick continued.
“Prepare me?” Nia repeated, anxiety flaring. She’d never been to one of these celebrations and had no idea what he was talking about.
“Oh, yes. There are several steps.”
“What the fuck.” She almost stomped her foot. “What the actual fuck. One drink, one lap, and then leave—” she rattled off, like reciting the original plan might somehow show her a path to reverse the disaster unfolding around her. “—get naked?”
Maybe that really wasn’t such a bad idea.
Elder Patrick barely looked fazed. “Prince Lochlan,” he said instead, turning toward him.
“Elder Patrick, sir,” Lochlan replied. “Is there someplace we could—have a moment? This is a lot for Nia.”
Patrick raised an unimpressed brow. “Clearly.”
But he nodded and gestured for them to follow. They stepped down a narrow set of stairs behind the stage. As they went, Nia’s eyes caught on a door behind the stage marked with bold letters—EXIT.
It practically sang to her.
But Patrick kept walking. Past the exit. Past freedom. Until they reached a small, dimly lit room. “I’ll give you a few minutes while I gather the supplies,” he said before stepping out and closing the door behind him.
The second he was gone, Nia dragged her hands down her face and groaned.
Her mind spun—too fast, too loud. Her father had outed her. The world knew. There was no undoing it. No disappearing into the tunnels, no slipping away into the life she had built for herself. This was happening. And though she longed to escape, she knew leaving now wouldn’t change anything. Her breath grew shallow. She was breathing too fast, too often, too?—
“Look at me.”
Lochlan’s hands landed gently on her shoulders, steadying her.
The moment their eyes met, he brushed his fingers lightly against her cheek. She leaned into his hand, chasing the contact, grounding herself in it. She inhaled slowly, filling her lungs with something other than panic.
“None of this changes who you are,” Lochlan said, calm and sure. “Who you’ve become.”
Her chest ached, but she nodded.
“You can do the spell,” he continued. “Then we’ll leave. One witch event down, and we’ll figure out the rest together, on our own.”
Her fingers curled into his sleeve. “But?—”
A knock cut her off. She tensed.
Lochlan sighed. “That was hardly a moment.” He gave her hand a final squeeze. “You do the spell. We leave.”
Then, before she could argue, he pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.
She exhaled, steeled herself, and pulled the door open—to find Wulfric and Elder Patrick waiting on the other side.
