Page 177 of Harbinger

I don’t know how long I linger, overthinking things, before I realize he’s turned toward me.

There’s something raw and unguarded in his eyes. His jaw tightens like he’s holding his tongue, and my own pulse stutters. For a single stolen moment, there is no one else. There are no guests, no party. No silly traditions or any of the pressure that goes with them. Just this man looking up at me like I’m a dream that might vanish if he dares to move.

Bells ring out in the darkness, followed by laughter. The sound rolls through the night and settles into my bones.

Twelve minutes to midnight.

This is my last chance to turn back. To flee to the warm safety of the house. If I do, he won’t stop me.

Releasing him from this purgatory I’ve built for us might be the kindest thing I could do.

The stone beneath me suddenly feels unstable, as if it might tip in either direction if I don’t make a choice soon.

The bells chime again.

Eleven minutes.

I don’t turn around.

I step down, heart pounding as I continue past him onto the path that curves along the side of the house. But I pause, and he falls into step beside me without a word.

Ten.

The estate stretches in the night, its windows glowing like hopeful eyes as we move along its perimeter. The path feels longer now than it does in the day, giving time for a chill to slip under my sleeves and needle my skin.

Nine.

I shiver as the cold creeps farther in, finding the thin places in my resolve. I fold my arms around my waist, afraid to look at him, afraid I’ll stop in my tracks and never figure out whether to go back or move forward.

His coat settles on my shoulders.

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t invite the opportunity for me to refuse him, because we both know I would freeze to death before asking for his help.

Its warmth wraps around me, drawing me back to the baths. I can’t resist the urge to clutch it closer. His scent is everywhere. In my mouth. In my lungs. I breathe in traces of woodsmoke, leather, and something darker that lingers underneath it all. Something that belongs only to him.

Eight.

The Turning is about letting go. Leaving the old year behind and stepping into the new one.

I wasn’t letting go when I ran from him. I told myself I was cutting the rot away—cutting myself away. Protecting him.

That leaving was strength. That the torture of distance could be a kind of mercy.

That wanting him was the danger, not the choice.

But rot doesn’t ache when you hack it away. It doesn’t linger in your chest long after you’ve told yourself that it’s gone.

Seven.

Our arms brush, and I move mine a fraction away, my body reacting to the light touch before my mind catches up.

Because the closer we are, the harder it is not to reach for him.

It won’t be a decision then. It will be instinct.

And I don’t trust myself not to unravel.

Bishop takes a step away without comment, the move easy enough that it hurts.