The Second Death of Locke (The Hand and the Heart, #1)

by V.L. Bovalino

“Do you think,” Kier said, furious but level, “that I regret binding to you? That I regret taking you as my Hand? That I regret all of the lives we’ve taken, so that we could survive? Do you think I don’t know what it means to be yours?”

“I adore you,” he said, all in a rush. “No—no. Listen. I… I’m in love with you. I’ve been in love with you for years, maybe forever. Sometimes it’s all I can think about, and I can’t breathe because it’s so heavy on my chest that I… I might be holding it alone, the only thing about you I can’t be certain of. It’s agony, Grey, the not knowing.”

She sucked a breath, the realization running straight to her stomach. He’d always been affectionate, yes—and she’d thought nothing of it. But every time he’d touched her, every time he’d kissed her forehead or her temple or the back of her hand, every time he’d folded himself around her… perhaps each moment had been its own confession. And she, in her endless attitude of I bet you say that to all the girls and at least half of the boys, had utterly ignored it. She’d argued herself out of any possibility that even the most obvious sign was just another affection she didn’t deserve.

“I love you. Every choice I have made, that I am making, is because I love you.” His hand tightened on the mantel, knuckles going white. “Why must you always sacrifice yourself, and call that love?”

“What is love, without freedom?” she murmured against his skin. He leaned close to kiss her shoulder, then to whisper in her ear. “What is life, without you?”

“Take my freedom, Grey. Everything I have is yours. Everything I am is yours. Take my freedom, and keep your power, and keep my life. If you are here, I want to live. Even if it requires haunting this godforsaken rock for the rest of my life, never being more than an hour’s walk from you at any time—because, honestly, that’s how we would be anyway.” “I can’t,” Grey said. “I can’t.” “You can, and you will,” he insisted. “It’s yours, Gremaryse Locke, High Lady of the Isle and keeper of my heart, just as I am yours. Take it. Take it all.” She couldn’t speak. She leaned down, pressing her lips to his, surrendering even as she sent her worry down the tether. “Win me my Isle,” she said against his mouth, “and it is done.”

But perhaps love was a little bit of sacrifice, after all; and perhaps a bit of sacrifice could be allowed, as long as they were together.