never gone after Lucy.”
“Then why do you assume our child would be in danger?”
“Because—damn it, Maggie, you’re selkie.”
“Not anymore.”
“You are. In your blood. In your genes. And I carry my mother’s genes. The combination . . .” Fear for
her closed his throat. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Didn’t you say we should not borrow trouble?”
“Maggie, if you get pregnant, you might as well paint a bull’s-eye on your belly. The demons will come
after you. You could die.” The thought ripped his insides. His hand clenched hers on the table. “I can’t
lose you.”
“My dearest heart. My love.” Her voice was gentle, her eyes dark and tender. “All mortal things die.
Now or five years from now or fifty . . . what is any of it, compared to eternity? Yet I would rather have
one year with you than a millennium without you. I am human now. Let me be human.”
She was everything he’d ever wanted. And she wanted a family. With him.
“It’s a risk,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Life is a risk. I chose this life with you. Let me live it fully.”
Her love shook him.
Her faith shamed him.
“Maggie.” Shit. “I never could resist you.”
Her smile was slow and provocative. She was so beautiful, with her wide, dark, understanding eyes and
her come- fuck-me smile. “That’s what I am counting on.”
“You didn’t conceive with your mate. What if I can’t give you a child?”
“The selkies’ birth rate has been declining for centuries. It may be I am barren. If we cannot make a child
together, we will do what other human couples do. Adjust. Adopt. I do not expect a miracle, Caleb.”
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Her smile turned rueful. “Or only a very small one.”
She ripped his heart.
She tossed back her hair and stood, giving him another of her direct looks. “Do you want to make
another list of reasons why this is a bad idea? Or do you want to make love?”
Heat kicked in his groin. Caleb swallowed. He was so screwed. Or he would be, if he gave her half a
chance.
If he gave them a chance.
“ Life is a risk. ”
“I want you,” he said honestly. “I always want you.”
Her breasts in his hands, his body in her body. Nothing between them. Skin on skin, the way it had been
the first time.
“Well, then.” Her smile spread. Come and get me.
Caleb grinned with love and lust and rounded the kitchen table.
Bart Hunter fumbled with his front door in the dark.
Something was wrong. Alarm pierced the damp evening mist and the fog of whiskey like a beacon.
No porch light. Lucy always left the porch light burning for him. The knob turned under his hand before
he could get the key in. She never forgot to lock the door either. She was a careful girl, Lucy.
Responsible. Not like . . .
But his mind winced from the comparison like an old bruise.
He stumbled into the front hall. So still. So dark. The smell of the Crock-Pot—tomatoes, maybe, and
onions—permeated the downstairs.
Bart wavered between the empty kitchen and the darkened living room. His stomach rolled with a
combination of hunger and too much Seagram’s. Maybe he’d have a bite, to please her.
But first he’d have another drink.
He lurched for the living room and the liquor cabinet. Stopped short, his heart banging.
“Lucy?”
She sat upright on the couch, her eyes wide open and gleaming in the dark.
He covered his start, his guilt, in aggression. He hated her to watch him drink. “What the hell are you
doing up? You should be in bed.”
“I should,” she said. Impossible to tell from her tone of voice if she was questioning or agreeing with him.
Bart scowled. “What’s the matter with you?”
She paused, like she was really thinking about it. “I don’t know.”
He took a reluctant step forward. She looked . . . different. Paler, maybe, though it was hard to tell in the
dark. She smelled like she’d been
“Then why do you assume our child would be in danger?”
“Because—damn it, Maggie, you’re selkie.”
“Not anymore.”
“You are. In your blood. In your genes. And I carry my mother’s genes. The combination . . .” Fear for
her closed his throat. “It’s too dangerous.”
“Didn’t you say we should not borrow trouble?”
“Maggie, if you get pregnant, you might as well paint a bull’s-eye on your belly. The demons will come
after you. You could die.” The thought ripped his insides. His hand clenched hers on the table. “I can’t
lose you.”
“My dearest heart. My love.” Her voice was gentle, her eyes dark and tender. “All mortal things die.
Now or five years from now or fifty . . . what is any of it, compared to eternity? Yet I would rather have
one year with you than a millennium without you. I am human now. Let me be human.”
She was everything he’d ever wanted. And she wanted a family. With him.
“It’s a risk,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Life is a risk. I chose this life with you. Let me live it fully.”
Her love shook him.
Her faith shamed him.
“Maggie.” Shit. “I never could resist you.”
Her smile was slow and provocative. She was so beautiful, with her wide, dark, understanding eyes and
her come- fuck-me smile. “That’s what I am counting on.”
“You didn’t conceive with your mate. What if I can’t give you a child?”
“The selkies’ birth rate has been declining for centuries. It may be I am barren. If we cannot make a child
together, we will do what other human couples do. Adjust. Adopt. I do not expect a miracle, Caleb.”
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Her smile turned rueful. “Or only a very small one.”
She ripped his heart.
She tossed back her hair and stood, giving him another of her direct looks. “Do you want to make
another list of reasons why this is a bad idea? Or do you want to make love?”
Heat kicked in his groin. Caleb swallowed. He was so screwed. Or he would be, if he gave her half a
chance.
If he gave them a chance.
“ Life is a risk. ”
“I want you,” he said honestly. “I always want you.”
Her breasts in his hands, his body in her body. Nothing between them. Skin on skin, the way it had been
the first time.
“Well, then.” Her smile spread. Come and get me.
Caleb grinned with love and lust and rounded the kitchen table.
Bart Hunter fumbled with his front door in the dark.
Something was wrong. Alarm pierced the damp evening mist and the fog of whiskey like a beacon.
No porch light. Lucy always left the porch light burning for him. The knob turned under his hand before
he could get the key in. She never forgot to lock the door either. She was a careful girl, Lucy.
Responsible. Not like . . .
But his mind winced from the comparison like an old bruise.
He stumbled into the front hall. So still. So dark. The smell of the Crock-Pot—tomatoes, maybe, and
onions—permeated the downstairs.
Bart wavered between the empty kitchen and the darkened living room. His stomach rolled with a
combination of hunger and too much Seagram’s. Maybe he’d have a bite, to please her.
But first he’d have another drink.
He lurched for the living room and the liquor cabinet. Stopped short, his heart banging.
“Lucy?”
She sat upright on the couch, her eyes wide open and gleaming in the dark.
He covered his start, his guilt, in aggression. He hated her to watch him drink. “What the hell are you
doing up? You should be in bed.”
“I should,” she said. Impossible to tell from her tone of voice if she was questioning or agreeing with him.
Bart scowled. “What’s the matter with you?”
She paused, like she was really thinking about it. “I don’t know.”
He took a reluctant step forward. She looked . . . different. Paler, maybe, though it was hard to tell in the
dark. She smelled like she’d been
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