And the biggie—the way he’d completely come through for her with Aunt Vera. If she lived to be a hundred she would never forget the sight of him coming out of the swirling snow with her aunt in his arms, and the tender way he handled Uncle Franklin, quietly ensuring that the house would be alarmed without alarming her uncle. Few men would have been capable of that.

In her experience, modern men didn’t do things like that. They stepped away from responsibility, not toward.

Then, of course, his looks. An entirely male beauty she’d never had the pleasure of encountering before. You had to put that on the scale, too. She was as susceptible to eye candy as the next woman. The incredible pleasure of touching him, all over. Running her hand along that perfect cheekbone, tracing the beautiful line of his mouth, the strong line of his jaw. Those had been moments of perfection, forever embedded in her heart, which would fade away only when she closed her eyes for the last time.

Maybe she had known it wouldn’t—couldn’t—last, but though the knowledge had been right there in the back of her mind all along, like low dark clouds on the horizon, it had been oh-so-easy to forget it. Forget that this was a passing thing.

It wasn’t a passing thing for her. She’d fallen hard and fast and deep. And this was It.

It had taken her twenty-eight years to find love, and she couldn’t even begin to imagine lightning striking twice. It wouldn’t come again in her lifetime.

The Prewitt curse. In the three hundred years of Prewitt history she was aware of, there’d never been a divorce, never been a second marriage. Prewitts were like wolves. Or pigeons. Or voles. They mated once, and for life. This was good, unless you were twenty-one and widowed and spent the next seventy years mourning your husband, as her great-great grandmother had done.

Nick would go back to his Manhattan life, which was no doubt exciting, fast-paced, full of fascinating people and things, and she would stay here, tending Uncle Franklin and Aunt Vera and the library, growing older year by year, with only her memories of this remarkable week to sustain her.

Inside, she felt as gray and bleak as the weather outside. But she was a Prewitt. And, if nothing else, Prewitts had pride. Whatever else Nick had given her, he hadn’t given her promises and she had no right to expect them. She would meet the end of this affair with dignity. There would be plenty of time later to cry.

The rest of her life, in fact.

And so, when she turned to him, it was with a bland smile completely hiding her shattered heart.

“Whatever’s bothering you, Nick, you can tell me.” She even managed a smile. “I’m a big girl. I can take it.”

He paled. The ruddy, healthy color in his cheeks went. Oh God. This was going to be bad. He knew exactly how much he was going to hurt her, and it hurt him.

Though her stomach clenched in despair, she sketched a smile. Dignity. It was going to be the only thing left to her. She wrapped herself in it, forcing her hands not to tremble, forcing herself to look him straight in the eyes, forcing herself to breathe around the boulder in her chest.

He took in a sharp deep breath and she barely stopped herself from flinching when he opened his mouth.

“Charity…I have something to say to you.”

She nodded her head gravely. “Yes, Nick?”

“Charity, will you—”

He was going to ask a favor before leaving? Well, whatever it was he wanted, there was only one possible answer. Yes. He’d barged into her life, seduced her, and was now leaving, but she wouldn’t change a second of the past week. She’d lived more intensely, felt more deeply in the past seven days than in her entire life. He’d given her love. Even if only for a week, it was more than many people had. Anything in her power she had to give him was his for the asking.

He turned his head and looked her straight in the eyes, the muscles in his jaw working. There was a buzzing energy around him she couldn’t understand, but it was jarring, completely foreign to his calm nature.

Another sharp breath and it came out in a rush. “Charity Prewitt, will you marry me?”

It was the only thing Nick could think of, to keep her safe. Or as safe as he could manage.

His entry into Worontzoff’s lair had changed things, had somehow disturbed a pool that was deeper than he thought, with monsters residing on the bottom. He’d been expecting to enter, carry out a recon, then exit. Nothing he hadn’t done hundreds of times before. It was, after all, what he did.

But something was deeply wrong and he didn’t know exactly what. All he knew was that it involved Charity and that it scared the shit out of him, a man who didn’t scare easily.

He didn’t mind the feeling of danger encroaching. He’d chosen a risky path in life and this subliminal awareness, the kick to his senses, had saved his life more times than he could count. It was a tool he used, often and well, and he kept it shiny and well honed.

So the hot boiling feeling of things bubbling beneath the surface was fine. Worontzoff and his minions were dangerous men, and he was as ready as he could possibly be to deal with them, on 24/7 alert. He had the tools, the skills, the training and the will to strike back. What he was absolutely unequipped to deal with was a threat to Charity.

Worontzoff’s look, his possessive arm around Charity, the cold glance he’d given Nick, that fucking woody—it was clear that, in Worontzoff’s head, Charity was his. The fuckhead had actually convinced himself that Charity was Katya come to life. That Nick’s presence had made Worontzoff come out in the open and stake his claim made it even creepier. Nick’s presence had brought something to a head. Something cold and evil, which would roll right over Charity and leave her crushed and broken.

Last night he’d made love to her as if he could tuck her body into his, make her part of his flesh. As if all he had to do was fuck her hard enough, and she’d be safe for all time. But of course, he couldn’t, and morning came, bringing with it not only a clear-eyed analysis of the situation but this buzzing, itching, nagging feeling in his bones that something was going to come down soon. That someone was about to die.

There’d been a sickness in Worontzoff’s house, for all the elegant people, fine works of art, exquisite music. None of it, none of the beauty and culture mattered. It didn’t mean shit with the cold hand of death closing its gelid fist around it.

Since before he could talk, Nick could recognize evil, and it had been strong in that house.

He’d felt his death, or at least the possibility of his death. It wasn’t the first time he’d felt it, but it was definitely the strongest death vibe he’d ever had.

The vague feeling he would die young sharpened, came into focus.

For the first time in his life, Nick was afraid to die. Terrified, even. If he went, Charity would be alone. He’d spent enough time with her to know that she was not protected in any meaningful way. Christ, even her house was unprotected. There was absolutely nothing around Charity, nothing to shield her from the evil of the world. From Worontzoff or his minions, when he turned on her, as he inevitably would.

Her family was an elderly, very frail couple who relied on her to help them. She wasn’t equipped in any way to save herself, if he wasn’t around. She didn’t have the mental tools to sense danger and defend herself.

Charity was light itself—goodness and grace, the very qualities which were the first to go when evil stepped out from the shadows. Bad guys focused in like a laser beam on people like Charity, wanting to wipe them from the face of the earth. Because they could, because the Charities of this world represented something they could never have and never control.

Charity could never be bought, never be forced. She’d die first and that was what had Nick terrified.