Page 94 of Stolen Threadwitch Bride
Good gods, just how powerful was he?
“What I’m trying to say… badly… is that you have a choice—a few, actually. And in all those options, this is all yours, so please don’t think this place is a bribe or dependent on whether you… on what you decide.”
My lips twitched to see him stumble over his words, hesitant for a change. Where had the arrogant fae lord gone? “And these choices are?”
“You can live and work here in our capital—there’s an apartment above the showroom and I know you’d have customers clamouring to wear your work. If you wish to return to Briarbridge, well, this can all be transferred there. Or somewhere else in Albion, if you prefer. With the wages I owe you, you could buy… hmm, probably a quarter of Lunden, if you really wanted.”
“Sorry,what?” I spluttered. “A quarter of Lunden? You’re exaggerating.”
“Can’t lie, remember?” He lifted my hands, thumbs grazing my knuckles.
For a second, I thought he was going to kiss them. Hoped he would.
But his chest rose and fell in a heavy breath, and he edged closer still. The scent of him that I’d grown so used to filled me, sweet and sharp, woody and masculine, with that last drift of smokiness that made my breath catch.
I swayed towards him, wanting, wanting, wanting, despite the pretty lie I’d told myself—that I’d be happy without him, that the knowledge of his happiness would be enough.
“There is another option.” His voice dropped, rumbling through me. Head bowed, he examined the back of my hands like they were fascinating. “You could come here to work on your amazing creations during the day, and then in the evening, come home to me.”
Ba-DUM. My heart, here in my chest, which was full and not an empty, aching pit.
Come home to me.
I’d misheard… misunderstood. My hopes were playing a cruel trick on me. Because he couldn’t be saying… “What do you mean?” My voice wavered, every ounce of uncertainty I felt audible in that once sentence.
He looked up through lowered lashes, the flicker of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “I was hoping this might be a wedding gift from me to my bride.”
Did that mean…?
Was he…?
A wedding gift.
My pulse rushed in my ears.
I must’ve been gaping, because his brows shot up and he sucked in a sharp breath.
“Damnation, I didn’t actually say it, did I?” Releasing me, he raked his hands through his hair. He cleared his throat and closed his eyes. “Let me do this properly.”
He sank to his knees, placing his large hands on my hips. His warmth seeped through the thin cotton lawn of my gown and deep into my flesh, lighting sparks in my body, little motes of pleasure, of what was very nearly happiness.
My mouth went dry. I barely breathed.
“For avoidance of any doubt,” he said, eyes locked with mine, “I, Lysander of Elfhame, love you, Ariadne of Briarbridge, with every fibre of my being, with every dark speck of my magic, with every syllable of my True Name.”
I swayed, and his fingers pressing into my hips were all that kept me upright.
He loved me. Good gods. Stars above. Helovedme.
He feels for you as you do for him. Perhaps even more.
That was the thing he’d realised before I did.
His warmth filled my chest, bright like the stars at Calan Mai’s new moon when we’d first made love.
That smile flickered on the edge of his lips again, and I ached to kiss him. “And,” he went on, “I’d be the happiest creature in all of Elfhame and Albion combined if you would give your wholehearted and willing consent to marry me.”
Yes.
