“You’re not going to,” I assured her. “I don’t get jealous of people who came before me, if that’s what you’re worried about. That’s not one of my things.”
“Okay, then. If you’re sure.” She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself. “Her name was Jess—but you already know that. She was a theater student, in Chicago, actually. That’s where she was from.”
“Oh,” I said, a little surprised. “I don’t know why I assumed she was a local.”
“No, she was just passing through. Taking some time off from her master’s in drama to make money—working at Camelot, of all the dumb things. Apparently they can afford to pay their professional cosplay performers really well over there, and she’d signed on for a season of playing Nimue in one of their cornball dinner musicals at the Avalon.”
The Avalon was an upscaleish restaurant, marooned on an artificial island in the middle of the manmade lake that adjoined Castle Camelot’s moat—yet another ridiculous outgrowth of the Blackmoore empire. Her participation in it seemed like a terrible reason to hate Jessica right off the bat, yet here we were. I’d already decided I basically couldn’t stand her.
“So, girl meets witch, tale as old as time,” I said instead. “With you so far. And then?”
“And then things got serious, fast. I broke the witchy news to her, she met my whole family, even joined in for a few Sabbats. And she took it all in stride, for someone who hadn’t grown up with any of it.” She smiled a little, shifting against the pillow. “That part . . . that part was really nice.”
Despite my assurances, the lingering echo of fondness in her voice needled under my skin a little. Shit, I was only human, and I didn’t really want to hear just how intensely super rad Jessica had been.
“But then it started getting to her,” she went on. “What it really meant, being committed to me, rooted to this place the way I am—and I’d made it clear I only wanted it to be serious with her. Jess was big on traveling, exploring . . . you know, globetrotting adventures, lots of perky sun salutes on mountain peaks. That type of #wanderingsoul #traveljunkie shit.”
“And you didn’t want to go with her,” I said, quiet.
“Not so much didn’t want to, as couldn’t,” she replied, a little defensively. “I’m the Avramov scion, a Thistle Grove witch. I can’t just leave like that. And you know how I feel about being far from here.”
“I do,” I said, noncommittal, remembering my own dismay at her reluctance to even consider a visit to Chicago.
She blew out a long, unsteady breath, shifting in place. “It made her so frustrated with me. And by then she’d spent time with the rest of my family, too, gotten to know them. And the way she saw it, Avramovs were inherently problematic—not exactly a foolproof bet for long-lasting romantic partnerships. And if she was going to give up the world for me, I’d better be damn well worth a sacrifice like that.”
The bitterness in her voice made me ache for her, even as I very reluctantly understood just a slice of how Jess had felt. Talia was an intimidating prospect, if you took her only skin-deep, all that beauty and brashness and semi-feral witchcraft wrapped in one very enticing and willful package. Not to mention her family’s decidedly gray-scale magic （and morality）， their emphasis on individual freedom above all else.
Though someone who had really loved her should have known better than to leave her at that, instead of looking past the trappings and down to the tender core.
“In the end, she decided I wasn’t worth the risk,” Talia finished stiffly. “So the summer season ended, and so did we. She broke things off right before she left. Cue heartbreak, disillusion, devastation, and the like.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, tipping my forehead against hers. “That must have been so hard on you. And then Gareth’s hot garbage, on top of all that? I can’t imagine.”
“It was all some fresh hell,” she agreed, but then the tension in her face softened a touch. “So I guess you can see why I had to at least pretend to pace myself with you.”
“Well, I for one am glad we managed to move past pretending,” I said, grazing a kiss over her forehead.
“Have we, though?” she said, wariness creeping back into her tone. “Because, what happens now?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, almost wincing as soon as the words were out, for how much they sounded like I was purposely playing dumb.