Poe’s eyes are glued to Becket now, to his long fingers currently working open the foil of a champagne bottle, to the fire burnishing his golden hair bronze.
“So I need to know exactly how you plan to deny us all, little bride, including yourself. Will you shun Saint and me, but take comfort in the others? Are Saint and I to take comfort in the others as well? Because I heard what you asked earlier, I heard you ask about lust and pain. If you’re asking for our bodies to quiet while our hearts decide . . . maybe before Imbolc . . . maybe before the six of us knew what we’d feel like in the circle, with the fire and with the thorns and with each other. But there’s no going back now.”
“There’s no going back now,” she repeats in a whisper, her eyes moving from Becket to Auden and then
