Rhys
She wasn’t coming.
I stood on the rooftop of the palace’s northernmost tower, my jaw tight as I watched the minutes tick by on my watch.
Six minutes past nine. Seven. Eight.
Bridget was always punctual unless she had a meeting that ran over, and she didn’t have any meetings that late at night.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Uncertainty coiled in my stomach. It’d been a gamble, reaching out to Booth and sneaking into the palace, but I’d been desperate to see her.
I’d known there was a chance Bridget, stubborn as she was, wouldn’t show up. But I also knew her. No matter what she said, she’d wanted to let me go as much as I wanted to leave her, and I was banking on the fact the past two weeks had been hell for her as much as it had been for me.
Part of me hoped it hadn’t, because the thought of her hurting in any way made me want to want to burn the palace to the fucking ground. But another, selfish part hoped I’d haunted her as she had me. That every breath was a struggle to draw enough oxygen into her lungs, and every mention of my name caused a sharp needle of pain to pierce her chest.
Because hurt meant she still cared.
“Come on, princess.” I stared at the red metal door and willed her to walk through it. “Don’t let me down.”
Twelve minutes past nine. Thirteen.
The rhythm in my jaw pulsed in time with my heartbeats.
Fuck it. If tonight didn’t work, I’d try again until I succeeded. I’d fought and won impossible battles all my life, and the one for Bridget was the most important one of all.
If she couldn’t or wouldn’t fight for us—because of her guilt, her duty, her family, or any other reason—I’d fight enough for us both.
Fourteen minutes past nine. Fifteen.
Dammit princess, where are you?
Either Bridget hadn’t received the note, or she’d chosen not to come.
Booth had texted saying he’d given her the note, and I trusted him. I wouldn’t have reached out to him otherwise. If what he said was true, then…
Pain lanced through me, but I forced myself to push it aside. I’d wait all night if I had to, in case she changed her mind, and if—
The door banged open and, suddenly, she was there. Out of breath, cheeks flushed, hair fluttering across her face from the wind.
My pulse ratcheted up several notches in the space of a millisecond.
I straightened, air filling my lungs as I finally came alive again.
Bridget remained in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob, her lips parted and her chest heaving.
The moonlight splashed across the roof, turning her golden hair silver and illuminating the slender curves of her body. The wind carried a faint hint of her lush jasmine scent toward me, and her green dress fluttered around her thighs, baring her shoulders and the long, smooth expanse of her legs.
I loved that dress. She knew I loved that dress. And something inside me unclenched for the first time in weeks.
“Hi,” she breathed. Her grip tightened on the doorknob like she was trying to steady herself.
My mouth curved. “Hi, princess.”
The space between us hummed, so taut with anticipation and unspoken words it was a living, breathing thing that pulled us closer together. No more of the distance I’d felt in the hospital. She was in my skin, my soul, the very air I breathed.
Everything I’d gone through the past two weeks to get here had been worth it.
“Apologies for being late. I ran into Markus and got roped into a conversation about the coronation.” Bridget brushed her hair out of her face, and I detected a small tremble in her hand. “It turns out the archbishop—”
“Come here, baby.”
I didn’t give a fuck about Markus or the archbishop. I needed her. Only her.
She froze at my low command, roughened by weeks of longing. For a second, I thought she’d turn tail and run, which might be smart, considering the pent-up fire raging through me. But then she ran toward me, her hair streaming behind her in the wind.
I caught her easily while our mouths crashed against each other. Tongues dueling. Teeth scraping. Hands roaming over every inch of flesh we could access.
Two weeks might as well have been two years, based on the way we devoured each other.
I cupped her ass and nipped her bottom lip in punishment for forcing us to waste all the time we could’ve spent together. For thinking anything she said could make me give her up when she was the only thing I’d ever wanted.
Even if I did stupid shit like walk out in the heat of the moment, I’d always find my way back to her.
“I’m sorry,” Bridget whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “For what I said at the hospital. I don’t want to marry Steffan, and I don’t—”
“I know.” I skimmed my palm over her back, over heated flesh flowing into cool silk, and another small shiver rippled through her. “I’m sorry for walking out.”
Regret twisted my insides. Our separation had been as much my fault as hers. I should’ve stayed. Fought harder.
Then again, she’d needed the space to sort through her thoughts. Her grandfather’s heart attack had been fresh in her mind, and there’d been no changing her mind that day.
“I thought you weren’t coming.” My hand lingered on the small of her back. “Remind me to kill Markus the next time I see him.”
She released a small laugh. “Done.” Bridget tipped her chin up until her eyes met mine. “I…” She appeared to think better of what she’d been about to say. “How did you get in here? If anyone saw you…”
“They didn’t. Navy SEAL, remember?” I drawled. “I can evade a few palace guards.”
She rolled her eyes, and my mouth twitched at the familiar sight of her amused exasperation. Fuck, I’d missed her. This. Us.
“And Booth?”