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“Philippe told me that mating was destiny. Once I found you, there would be nothing to do but accept fate’s decision. But that’s not how it works at all. In every moment, for the rest of my life, I will be choosing you—over my father, over my own self-interest, even over the de Clermont family.”
“She has my heart,” Matthew said. “Not all of it. If she did, every member of the Congregation would be dead, the covenant would be broken forever, and you would be where you belong and not in this room,”
Matthew was composed, but it was the calm of a frozen river: hard and smooth on the surface but raging underneath. He’d been using words as weapons since we left the Old Lodge. He’d apologized for the first few cutting remarks, but there would be no apology for this. Now that he was with his father again, Matthew’s civilized veneer was too thin for something so modern and human as regret.
“The witch is reckless. It’s my responsibility to make sure her impulses don’t go unchecked. Otherwise she could destroy us.” “The witch is mine,” Matthew said coldly. “Not yet,” Philippe said, descending the stairs with a regretful shake of his head. “Maybe not ever.”
Hamish had been right: Matthew was not the same man here. He was even finer. And in spite of my fears at Mont Saint-Michel, he was still mine.
“‘It begins with absence and desire, it begins with blood and fear,’” I whispered. “‘It began with a discovery of witches,’” time responded, in a primeval echo that set alight the blue and amber threads that flickered against the room’s stone walls.
