She looked away and rolled her eyes, feeling like a teenager again.
Chapter Thirty-One
“I don’t know. I don’t know.”
Catriona flung open the door to her apartment and Broch followed her inside.
“Whit dinnae ye ken?”
She spun on her heel. “Any of it. It’s all too much.” She sat on a kitchen island barstool, feeling out of breath.
I’m going to have to calm down before I give myself a panic attack.
She allowed her arms to flop to her sides. “There are too many things. Luther is alive but some kind of angel, a redhead with glowing swords for hands is here to teach me how to kill people, namely my father, who happens to be infected with the same disease as my sister and who might be trying to destroy the world…”
“She said ye wouldnae really be murdering them...”
Catriona ignored him and lifted her arms into the air again. “And Sean! With his you can’t go fight monsters without my permission BS? Like I’m a kid. I’m practically thirty. Who does he think he is?”
“He kens he’s yer da.”
Broch closed the door behind him and moved to her. He wrapped his hands around her raised arms and gently pulled them back down to her lap.
“Sweet Cat. Dinnae git yerself in a bother. Tak’ it bit by bit.”
His voice was soft and it disarmed her agitation for a moment.
“But how?” she asked, hearing herself sound a touch whiny.
He held up his index finger, counting off the ways. “First, Luther is alive. ‘Tis a guid thing, aye?”
She nodded. “Yes. It’s great. But now he’s some kind of blue lightning—”
“Kin ye blether tae him?”
She considered this. She hadn’t had any trouble talking to him. He seemed like the same old Luther. “Yes.”
“Does he sound lik’ Luther whin he answers ye? Can he hug ye?”
“Yes.”
“Sae, whofur cares if he looks lik’ lightning bugs in a jar? He’s back.”
Catriona giggled. “You’re right.” She slipped her hands beneath his shirt and rested her palms on either sides of his hips, maneuvering him to stand between her legs. Slowly, she slid her hands upward, lifting his shirt to reveal his rippling stomach muscles as if they were actors making a curtain call.
He chuckled. “Whit are ye doin’?”
The sides of his body felt warm and smooth as she eased up his ribs.
“I’m taking off your shirt,” she said, her voice falling to a whisper. “Keep talking. You’re making me feel better.”
“Bit it’s hard tae think when yer—”
She banged against the underside of his biceps until he raised his arms and allowed her to pull off his shirt by standing on the foot rail of her stool. Catriona ran her hands across his chest as his tee tumbled to the ground.
“Luther was first. What’s second?” she asked, leaning forward to kiss the divot between his pecs. She heard him groan.
“Second was Anne,” he mumbled. “She’s here to help.”
“Is she?”
“Aye.”
“You promise?”
“Ah promise.” Broch took her shirt by the bottom and lifted it over her head before dropping it on top of his own on the floor. He leaned to kiss the spot where her neck and shoulder met as he unclasped her bra and sent it to the floor with the rest of their clothes.
“How did you know how to undo that?” she asked as his palm brushed the side of her breast.
Broch breathed a laugh that tickled her ear and made her eyes flutter shut. “Ah’ve been dreaming of opening that infernal contraption fer months. Practicing in mah mind.”
She chuckled and then sobered. “Anne wants me to kill my family.”
Broch’s arms encircled her and he swept her off the stool. Her legs wrapped around his waist and she locked her ankles as he shifted one hand beneath her butt, the other steadying her back. He held her chest tight to his as she slipped her arms around his neck and rested her cheek on his shoulder.
“She said thay wilnae be murdered. They'll return healthy n’ happy. Juist lik’ travelin’ through time,” he murmured in her ear as he carried her to her bedroom.
She nodded. “I suppose we traveled and it didn’t hurt.”
“Nae. We’re here. Healthy n’ happy.”
He laid her on the bed and lowered himself down on her, the weight of him sending a jolt of anticipation through her.
“What about us?” she asked.
He stared down into her eyes with an intensity she’d rarely seen in him.
“Yer mine,” he said, running his thumb along her cheekbone.
“But the marriage was a mistake—”
Brochan placed his index finger across her lips to hush her. “It wasn’t a mistake. Ah’m tired o’ telling ye, wummin. Nae, ah’m needin’ tae prove it tae ye.”
He moved away his finger and kissed her, gently at first and then with increasing intensity. Whatever doubt remained in her mind were erased like a sandcastle against the rising tide.
As his lips moved down her body and his hands slid away her jeans, she was struck by a sudden realization.
I know him.
Every move, every touch, felt familiar.
Her mind flooded with memories. They’d kissed a million times. She’d felt his hands on her body a million times. Their flesh young. Their flesh old. Two lovers hopelessly intertwined since time before time. A hundred lifetimes together as friends and lovers.
The relationships she’d known in L.A.—the way things had never felt right—suddenly made sense. Her confession to Pete. Her need to run.
She wasn’t hers to give.
I was always his.
He was always mine.
Years of blaming herself, insecurities and pain—everything washed away with one racking sob.
He looked at her, concerned, and she smiled to let him know not to worry. She needed him to know her cries came from a place of almost unbearable joy.
