A Matter of Truth (Fate, #3)

Excuse me? Jonah is second tier Council and extremely influential. Kellan is highly ranked within the Guard; his mentor runs it now. Who in the worlds could ever tell the Whitecomb twins that they are forbidden from using their crafts on some psycho bitch that is stalking them? “Who told you that?”


“The first time Kellan called the Guard about her breaking into our apartment—it’s when we realized this was a real problem—Sophie’s parents petitioned the Council within a half hour, claiming they were fearful that we would retaliate and break the law by making their daughter a zombie. No matter what I argued, I was forcibly reminded that I could not influence another Magical simply because she was having,”—he flashes air quotes—“romantic difficulties with my brother. Nor was he allowed to influence her simply because he was tired of her.” A frustrated sigh fills the room.

This just doesn’t make sense. “Law? What law?”

“The one forbidding Emotionals from influencing other Magicals in matters such as love and hate without written permission beforehand.”

What? This is the first I’ve ever heard of such a thing, which I guess just goes to show how little I really paid attention to my Council duties before. Shit. What else am I blindly ignorant to? I clear my throat. “Do you guys ever do that, though? Work on people without them knowing?”

“Most things are okay. Like, making hysterical people calmer. Or, those who are suicidal, we give them hope once more. But we never work on anybody without permission when it comes to matters of the heart.” He leans forward. “Chloe, nobody wants to find out that they’re in love with somebody because an Emotional made them be—or find out they loathe someone for the same reason. I get why there’s a rule. I agree with it in principal, actually.”

A frustrated sigh escape me, too. This is my fault. All of this is my fault. “What can we do?”

“Nothing we haven’t already done.”

“Maybe . . . I could talk to her?”

“Since I happen to know she hates you, I’m going to ask if you can make every attempt not to talk to her again.”

I blink.

“What she feels toward you . . . it makes me uneasy,” he says.

“Should I be worried?”

He pulls no punches. “I think we all should be worried.”




Later that night, Jonah shows me his new apartment. Sawdust and plastic tarps litter the floor, walls are half painted, but behind all this, I can see something infinitely dear to me: a home. More importantly, a home with him.

I nudge a paint can with my foot. “You know how much I’ve always wanted a gray living room.”

I delight in watching his cheeks turn pink under his golden tan as he realizes I caught him subconsciously (or even consciously?) choosing colors that I would’ve picked for a home.

“It’s okay.” I loop my arms around his waist, twisting my fingers in his belt loops. “Apparently, I recreated your pea coat in Alaska. Karl called me out on it. I was looking for you, too.”

He nuzzles my neck; my knees go weak. “Yeah?”

“I dreamed about you a lot, too,” I admit. My voice is all breathy as his hands move underneath the hem of my shirt, skimming the line of skin right about my skirt.

His voice is soft against my sensitive skin. “Good dreams?”

I tell him that, while some dreams helped me relive good times between us, others had me losing him over and over again, only for me to destroy whatever place we were in in my desperation to find him. Anxiety crawls the walls of my stomach as I think of these nightmares and how they tortured me for months.

“I’m here,” he tells me, cupping my face with both hands. “You haven’t lost me.”

I nearly choke on my regret. “I almost did.”

The kiss he gives me is gentle, soothing. “I have something for you.”

“Other than an apartment?”

He grins as he pulls away. “Do you like it then? If you don’t, we can rent it out and find a place more to your liking.”

“Are you kidding?” I glance around. “I love it.” I lean up on my tiptoes so I can kiss the corner of his mouth. “You have excellent taste, Mr. Whitecomb.”

He laughs, and I delight in how he blushes once more. I’m told that, while the renovations are almost done, if I want to switch out any of the paints, I’m free to do that. None of the appliances in the kitchen have been bought yet, nor has any of the furniture other than what we already own, so we can go shopping for them as soon as I want.

“Is that my gift?” I tease as I throw open the closet door in the master suite. I’m faced with what looks like a whole other room—not just a closet, but an entire room dedicated to clothes, shoes, and the like.

Whoa. I don’t even have one-fourth of the amount of clothes needed to fill such a space.

“No.” He pulls me away from the closet. “Nor is that.” I’m led over to a huge bay window that has a bench built in right in front of it. I sit down, but he drops down to a knee. The hummingbirds in my chest take flight as I drink the sight of him in the beautiful moonlight spilling into the room.

“I proposed to you, remember?” Despite my teasing, my voice trembles.