Chapter 19

Jeremiah had come to rescue him. Cadence Bell, for every improbable opera plot and daring fictional escape, had never had anyone try to rescue him before. Had never known anyone who would.

“Ah,” Jeremiah said, barely a sound, almost inadvertent: as if struck by a fist. “That’s what it was. For you. Freedom. I’m sorry.”

But Cade was already saying, “No,” saying it over the end of that pain; Jeremiah should never be wounded by his carelessness, much less when he—when they—when Cade himself wanted—“No. I mean yes. At first. It wasn’t you, it was—everything. My parents. The inn. The wind—”

“It was too much,” Jeremiah agreed, not without recognition.

“You weren’t,” Cade explained helplessly. “Youweren’t. You were—the best part of it. Someone who kissed me in the rain, who—you were there that first night. Every night. When I wanted you. I only—I wanted to not think. For a while.”