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And that, if you run, I’ll run after you?” Run after her? What was that supposed to mean?
“I’m allowed to be angry. I’m allowed to be disappointed and hurt. This isn’t some fairy tale where we get to end our story with happily-ever-after. We’re going to disagree. We’re going to fight. But eternity is a long time to go without forgiveness.” Forgiveness. She hadn’t expected it. She really didn’t deserve it.
“And when you forget who you are,” he went on, tracing her lips with his damp fingers, “I’ll tell you about all our adventures together. That you are my wife, and the woman I adore. And when you forget who I am”—he grinned—“I’ll tell you my name is Theo Swanson, a reformed jewel thief from Essex. Or Hunter Atkinson the third, the youngest of four sons to a disgraced earl from some obscure town in the midlands. I haven’t decided which.”
“I’d rather have one lifetime grounded with you,” he said, cupping her face in his hands and rubbing his thumbs over her cheeks, “than a thousand years flying alone.”
So he picked up a stool, carried it to the front, and sat beside the woman he loved. He’d meant what he said. They were in this together.
Vivienne reached for Deacon’s hand, holding onto him while she still could, knowing she couldn’t live with herself if anything happened to him. If he gave up his immortality.
