Untamed - A. G. Howard Page 0,43

destined to become. I can keep you on task. Prevent any . . . distractions.”

He looked down at my wedding ring, which I had yet to remove. It had become more than a symbol of my and Jeb’s devotion. It had become a symbol of my human life, and I intended to wear it until the moment I left it all behind.

Morpheus’s pinky outlined the ring, careful not to touch the diamonds or the silver band holding them in place. “It is important that you not allow anything to impede you from taking that final leap. You’ve mourned those you’ve lost long enough. They are at peace. Let their peace give you yours. Elsewise, you’ll be crippled . . . unable to act with a sharp mind. Focus is key for any plan to work.”

“I already know that,” I answered, my chest pinched and tight. “You’re worried I’ve become senile. That I can’t handle this.”

He sighed, stroking my thumb with his. “Not senile. Reminiscent. It happens to humans. You’ve told me so yourself, as I’ve watched you grow to refinement and wisdom.”

“Refinement.” I ventured a tentative smile at his attempt to charm me. “Is that what we’re calling it today?”

He held my gaze, unfaltering. “Your eyes have not lost their incandescence, nor your mind its wit. You are no prune. You’re every bit my tart little plum, as you’ve always been. I’ve told you this repeatedly, have I not?”

At least once each night in my dreams, Beloved Moth.

I didn’t answer aloud, just as I didn’t reveal my deepest insecurities: I was ashamed for him to see me at my lowest point . . . I couldn’t bear for him to have any memory of seeing me as a feeble corpse lying in a cardboard coffin—the way I’d had to see Jeb after his death, just before he was cremated.

“A queen should not require rescue,” I said simply. I kept my eyes on his, mesmerized by those inky irises that looked back at me as they always had since our childhood, filled with awe and affection. Somehow, he saw past my aging shell to the girl I once was, and I craved to see myself as he did. “A queen must merit the respect of her kingdom and subjects. And the admiration of her king.”

“Oh, I assure you.” He captured my hand again and kissed each knuckle where they bulged with arthritis. “You’ve already merited that. In fact, I plan to show you just how deep my admiration runs”—the word deep grated in his throat like a growl—“however many times it takes for you to be convinced, the moment you’re mine at last.”

My cheeks flared hot. In spite of all the years he’d flattered and beguiled me with teasing innuendos, in spite of everything I’d experienced as a mortal wife, mother, and grandmother, he still had the ability to make me blush.

“Ah, there it is.” He skimmed a finger across my crinkled cheek and smirked, far too satisfied with himself. “I haven’t lost my touch.”

“As if that could ever be possible, for the master of verbal seduction,” I teased.

His mood shifted to potent defiance in one blink. “You’ll soon see it’s more than all talk, blossom.”

I blushed hotter, feeling younger than I had in weeks. He always had that effect on me. Always made me feel desirable and alive. Aside from the times when he was challenging me or making me furious.

He leaned back in his seat, wings lifted. “Your body is bone-tired. Let me do this for you, so you can rest,” he tried one last time.

“You’ve taught me to be strong and resourceful. I should make that final leap into the rabbit hole on my own.” An unexpected surge of vulnerability made me shiver. I gripped my teacup to absorb its warmth. “But you’ll be there, to catch me?”

“I shall be there expecting a mind-numbing kiss for all my troubles,” he answered without pause.

Smiling, I took out the chess box. Morpheus watched intently while I animated the pieces to enact my grand design to leave the human realm and cover my tracks with the aid of my royal advisor, bits of bone provided by the pixies, a bag of ash, two simulacrum suits, a common housefly, and a handful of sprites. As I spoke, his jeweled eye markings glittered a lime green—uneasy, but hopeful. The anticipation emanating off of him was visceral.

It was inconceivable, that we’d shared a sixty-three-year courtship—platonic, though not without its share of tension. Although he