Page 63 of Fierce Highland Magic

"I have explained quite a bit."

"You have explained selectively."

"That is the nature of explanation. If one explains everything at once, it becomes a lecture."

"I would prefer a lecture."

"No, you wouldn't."

"I would."

"You would interrupt every third sentence to ask whether I had a source."

"I have sources."

"Do you?"

"I have professional judgment."

"Ah." His smile returned, polished and warm. "There she is."

The comment shouldn't have touched me. It did. Something in me tightened.

I had no patience left for his charm. No patience for the way he turned every serious thing sideways until it became a joke I was expected to step around.

The market had taken my grandmother's tea. It had taken my mother's face. It had taken the sound of rain striking corrugated metal while I stood dry and small in a garden shed.

And Rowan had taken my no, examined it, and decided it did not apply to him.

"I didn't ask you to save me," I said.

The humor left his face.

"I know."

"I didn't ask you to spend anything for me."

"I know."

"Then stop." The word came out flat. No hedging. No calculation. No there's a case for or on balance or assuming the risks remain consistent.

Just stop. It sounded naked in the air. I hated it immediately.

Rowan went still.

The silver leaves turned overhead. Green. Silver. Green. Silver.

His gaze dropped to the pale line at his throat. Then he looked back at me.

"I can't promise that," he said.

The answer struck with the clean force of a door shutting. "You can't," I repeated.

"No."

"Or you won't?"

His mouth tightened.