June 14th, 1996
A pale tomb rose from the tall grasses over the meadow underneath a tryst gray sky. Dark letters stood from its crumbling surface.
Tristan staggered through the rain. His drenched robes clung to his skin like a great weight, dragging him down as if his limbs were made of lead. He hauled himself up on the tomb and stared at the engravings, tracing the letters of his surname carved deep into the marble with the edge of his thumb.
'What is this place?'
A shadow protruded from behind the tomb. "The end." Its distorted, metallic voice echoed through the veil of rain.
Tristan sucked in a sharp breath. "Who are you? Where am I?"
The shadow strode forward. Its face hooded, a thin piece of wood rested in its palm, and a golden emblem of crossed rapiers shone from its black robes like a candle in the dark. "Who we are isn't important, Peverell."
"No." Tristan's blood froze and his finger flinched for his wand, brushing over soaked, empty fabric. He stared down at his sleeve.
"Are you looking for this?"
Tristan's head snapped back up.
Fleur's form coiled together in the shadow's place like smoke on the wind, a crimson dress clinging to her figure. She held out his wand, braided silver hair cascading down her shoulders and a small soft smile playing on her lips.
Warmth flooded Tristan's body like summer sun and the weight faded from his limbs. "Fleur," he breathed.
"Take it," she murmured and placed the wand into his fingers, a deep sadness straining her small smile. "You'll need it... now I'm gone."
The piece of smooth elder felt cold as death in his grip.
"Gone?" Tristan's heart sank into a deep dark pit. "Why?"
Fleur drew back. "I'm leaving, mon Coeur. I cannot stay here with you." She traced one pale finger over the name on the tomb. "If I do, I can only end up like them."
Golden fog crept down the field from the horizon, swallowing everything in its wake like an avalanche of amber liquid.
"No, please." Tristan forced the words past the thick hot lump in his throat and the blades of ice twisting through his breast. He tried to reach out, but his feet stood still as stone. "Please don't leave me, Fleur!"
Fleur turned towards the fog, glancing back over her shoulder at him. "Goodbye, mon Coeur."
Her outline bled into the mist as the fog swallowed her whole. Tristan flinched his eyes open with a gasp, panting frantically.
Bright sunlight stabbed his vision and the song of birds chirped through the open window on a faint breeze. A book snapped shut and soft, quick steps skidded over to him.
"Tristan!" Lithe arms dragged him into an embrace in a faint wash of sweet vanilla. They clung to him tight, cradling his head with hot fingers, as a hitched voice whispered his name again and again.
'Fleur.' A sharp pain tore through his temples as a flood of memories assaulted him.
Spells exploded, radiant as muggle fireworks. Ink black magic burst into smoke as amber fog crept through it. Before his mind's eye, a crest of golden rapiers gleamed bright as the summer sun, bringing tears to his sight.
A cold shock flashed through his veins. "Fleur!" Tristan snapped his eyes open into a face-full of silver hair and jerked upright. "Are you hurt?" he croaked. "What about Flint? The Musketeers!?"
"Shhh." Fleur ushered back into the pillows with a gentle hand, tears sparkling on her long eyelashes and trickling down her cheeks. "Je vais bien. You're safe. We're safe." She drew the dark green duvet back up to his chin and bent, pressing hot kisses all over his face. "How are you feeling?"
A dull pain throbbed in the back of his skull, stabbing through the lingering tiredness; biting deep through the ache like spells tearing through winter's snow.
"Like I've been pummeled by a swarm of bludgers." Tristan blinked past her silver-blonde hair toward the old grandfather's clock opposite and froze. "I slept into the late afternoon? Why didn't you wake me earlier? My parents will wonder what-"
"Afternoon?" Fleur's smile wilted like the petals of a flower. "It's... it's been two weeks, Tristan..."
Tristan stared at her, the drum of his heart in his ears and the throbbing in the back of his skull intensifying. 'Two weeks?'
Stiff, aching fingers crept up to his neck, brushing over wrinkled skin. "My parents' portkey," he murmured. "What happened after I used it, Fleur?"
"I'm not sure I can explain," Fleur whispered, snatching her wand from her waist and closing her eyes. "Your mother is downstairs with the healer who checked in on you. I will call for them."
Silver mist spewed from her wand tip, forming something winged that flapped down through the floorboards with grace.
Tristan chuckled, then winced at the depth of the soreness in his chest. "That was definitely... something birdy."
"Hush," Fleur chided him, her cheeks turning a little pink. "Don't overexert yourself." She sat down by the edge of the bed, patting the duvet down by his neck.
"I'm not worried." Tristan blew one of her dancing blonde curls from his forehead, stifling a wince from the pounding of his skull. "I'm in the best hands now, no?"
"Oui," she murmured, caressing his hair. "I'm here. I'll take care of you."
The gentle warmth of her touch spread through him like flames. You'll stay.' Before his mind's eye, her soft smile twisted and his stomach churned. 'But how much longer?'
Heels clicked down the corridor and the door burst open. Fleur drew back as his parents rushed into the room, followed by a tall, slim blonde.
"Tristan!" His mother bolted toward him and engulfed him in a fierce hug, her shoulders trembling, and something damp soaked into his shirt. "We were so worried about you."
"I'm-" He swallowed, the word caught on his tongue and churning guilt gnawed at him, biting through him like his mother's tears were made of acid. "I'm- I'm struggling to breathe, Mother."
She flinched back, a glimmer of worry sparkling in her blue eyes as she cupped his jaw. "How do you feel?"
"Slightly scrambled. A little confused." Tristan craned his neck with a low wince. His father's skin was pale as a vampire's and dark rings loomed beneath his eyes. "What happened to me?"
They all glanced at the blonde witch in tight white robes.
'She looks like a Black.' Tristan skimmed her pale gray eyes, slim nose, and fine jawline. "Any chance we share a grandfather, Healer...?
"Prewett." Her lips twitched. "Formerly Black. We've met quite a few times at Grimmauld Place, Tristan."
Tristan rubbed his throbbing temples with a frown, straining his memory. "Narcissa, right? Sorry, I... I couldn't recall for a second there."
"A temporary aftereffect of what you went through," she said, pulling a slim black wand from within her healer's robes. "May I?"
Tristan eyed the piece of wood warily. "Sure... Just let me know what happened to me."
She strode to his bedside and leaned over the duvet. "You put way too much strain on your magical core and completely exhausted yourself." The bright light of her wand tip stabbed into his eye as she peered deep into them. "There was a high risk you'd end up a squib, so we placed you into a magical coma."
"A squib?!" Cold shock jolted through Tristan's veins. "I need my wand!" Ink black mist swirled through his fingers, flashing hot and cold as he yanked off the duvet and reached for the rattling drawer by his bedside.
"No, Tristan!" Narcissa's fingers closed around his wrist like a vice. "Stay calm. You still have your magic, but it needs to recover now."
'I still got it.' Tristan stared at the black magic oozing back underneath his skin. Warm relief flooded through him.
Narcissa eased her grip and placed his hands back in his lap. "That's better, stay calm."
He let out a trembling breath as his heartbeat steadied. "How did I exhaust myself?"
"Remember your dueling practice with your father?" She traced her wand over his ears down the side of his face to his throat, humming under her breath. "The next time I want you to make sure you take some rest after the first signs of magical fatigue."
Tristan cocked his head, fixing his father with a deadpan stare. 'Practice dueling, huh?'
Fleur's fingers found and squeezed his underneath the duvet.
"Ah yes, that dueling practice," Tristan murmured. "I'll make sure to remember next time."
"Good." Narcissa placed her wand flat on his chest, cupping it with her palm and closing her eyes. "Your magic will likely feel a bit off for some time but if you follow the potions regime I've set up for you and abstain from any strenuous activities - both physical and magical - you'll be back in shape within roughly a week. Take one vial in the morning, one around noon, and two before midnight."
"Bloody fantastic," Tristan muttered. "I bet they'll taste sweet as butterbeer."
Narcissa opened her eyes and leveled him with a stern look. "Be grateful you're not in our Permanent Spell-Damage Ward in Saint Mungo's, Tristan." She pocketed her wand and rose. "You're already a lot healthier than I expected; it's fascinating how your magic started fixing some of the damages by itself once it replenished."
Tristan's neck prickled as he held her piercing gray eyes.
"Perhaps it has something to do with that infamous Peverell family magic, no?" Narcissa hummed and turned to his parents, smoothing out her white robes. "Give me a floo call should his condition change or should your morning sickness get any worse, Marlene. If I don't hear anything from you, I'll take another look at your son after my regular check-in with you next week."
His mother let out a trembling breath. "Thank you so much, Narcissa." She released his father's hands, her knuckles white. "Let me accompany you back to the fireplace."
"Stay with your son, I shall find the way back myself," the other witch said. "Good day to you all."
Narcissa's heels clattered down the corridor, ringing in time to the distant throb in his skull. Tristan regarded his father with a pointed look. "Dueling practice, huh?"
"What did you want me to tell her, Tristan?" he scoffed. "The truth?"
"Well, what's the truth then?" Tristan probed. "Why did I spend two weeks in a coma?"
His father pulled a slim silver chain from within his robes. The dark gemstone of the amulet gleamed like a piece of molten obsidian, deformed to the point the family's crest was no longer recognizable. "You used our portkey, just not the way we intended..."
Tristan's hand crept to the tiny patch of scarred skin by his neck. "What happened?"
"We designed those portkeys as a last reserve for no one but our children in case they needed to escape back here," his mother said. "We used your blood and some other-" her gaze flickered to Fleur, "-unorthodox magicks in its creation."
Tristan's frown deepened. "I know all that already."
"It's simple then, non?" Fleur cupped his cheek with gentle fingers, tilting his head toward her. "I shouldn't be here, Tristan. I could've been the one abducting you or your siblings and holding on to you as you portkey away to safety. Your parents' magic was meant to kill anyone who tried that."
Before his mind's eye, Fleur leaned against a marble tomb in her crimson dress, tracing the letters of her name with a small sad smile as the golden fog swallowed her.
"Kill you?" Tristan whispered, a horrible cold sickness creeping into his stomach.
Fleur's bright blue eyes hovered back into view a finger's length from him. "C'est bon," she murmured. "I'm right here because your magic prevented it."
Tristan took a deep breath, though the faint dizziness prevailed. "So I suffered the consequences for taking you with me. I paid twice the price?"
"Exactly," his father hummed. "Your magic was already weakened from dealing with some of your injuries. Using our portkey by yourself would've knocked you out for a good few minutes. Taking Fleur with you..."
'...almost squibbed me.' Dread dwelled in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at him with sharp, ragged teeth. 'And it probably would've killed Fleur like it was designed to do originally had I failed to overpower the portkey's intent.'
"You acted incredibly reckless, son." His mother's expression lost any trace of relief and turned hard. "What in Morgana's name were you even thinking going there?"
Tristan swallowed. 'How much did Fleur tell them already?'
He tried to catch Fleur's eye, but the blue depths gave away nothing as he hunted for the right words. "People tried to kill me during the tournament. We followed some clues and tracked down-"
"You mean you led Fleur into a bloody trap and almost got yourself killed!" his mother snapped, her eyes flashing. "Do you have any idea of the worry you caused us? Or how many tears your siblings and I shed over the last two weeks, not knowing if you'd keep your magic, not knowing if you'd ever-"
Her breath hitched and her lips trembled.
"It's okay, love." His father murmured and drew her into his chest, running his fingers through her hair down her back. "Fleur, would you mind giving us a few minutes to talk in private?"
Fleur tensed.
"No." Tristan clasped her hand tight underneath the duvet. "She stays."
'Like she stayed with me before.' A sharp tangle of guilt twisted in his breast. 'And because I can't have her leave me.'
"I wasn't suggesting." His father sighed. "What we're about to discuss is a family matter."
"No it's not. Not anymore." Tristan shook his head. "Fleur's seen the Musketeers. She's fought them with me. She even-"
"-occasionally speaks for herself, Tristan. Merci beaucoup," Fleur cut in, straightening by his bedside. "These Musketeers set a trap in the maze for your son. One that almost killed me." She parted her long blonde hair over one shoulder, leveling a cool look at Tristan's mother. "What would you have done if you were my age and it had been Monsieur Peverell?"
"That's completely diff-" his mother fell silent and her lips thinned. "Look, this is merely for your own good, dear. To protect you. Because we know our son cares deeply about you and we don't want to drag you into our family's mess."
"Drag moi?" Fleur raised a slim eyebrow, tilting her nose up. "I've already killed one of them, as I've told you before." She crossed her arms over her chest. "I've also told you that the metamorphmagus with the silly blue hair knew who I was. He talked to me like we were childhood friends yet he didn't hesitate a second to kill me. Who are these people and what is this purpose they talk of?"
"That's something I'd like to know as well," Tristan chimed in.
"No." His father took a deep breath. "That's enough." Parseltongue slipped into voice as he pinned down Tristan with hard green eyes. "What have you told her? How much does she know?"
"Nothing." Tristan scoffed, switching languages too. "I was sort of in a coma, remember?"
"Oh no, you two won't!" His mother scowled, stemming her hands on her hips. "We have a rule in this house. No parseltongue! Do not make me get it."
His father ignored her. "Listen to me, Tristan, this isn't a game. You need to keep Fleur out of this. If not for the good of our family, then do it for her sake. You care about her. You want to protect her, don't you?"
'Yes, but-' Words echoed from the back of his mind in distant whispers. 'If you want me in your life you have to let me in...'
Tristan glanced up at Fleur. Her eyes were set on him, a faint dark shadow of frustration swirling in them as her lips thinned.
"Fleur will learn as much as she has to." He squeezed her warm hand. "I'll lose her the second she loses trust in me. I can't let that happen. Ever."
"That's enough!" His mother swished her wand, glaring at them. "You two will regret this!"
Something small and silver zipped through the open door. She snatched it from the air and pulled a slim chain over her head, clutching a heart-shaped locket bearing a serpentine S.
His father sighed. "Is that really necessary?"
"Just as necessary as talking behind my back, apparently." Her words drew out in a long hiss. "Don't give me that look now, Harry Peverell, I'm far from done with you yet!"
A flicker of surprise passed over Fleur's face. "Que bizarre," she whispered, staring at the locket, a curious little gleam in her eyes. "How does it work?"
"Salazar Slytherin himself enchanted it with his blood, allowing its wielder to understand parseltongue." Tristan grinned. "Apparently he gifted it to his wife. Rather ironic, don't you think..."
Fleur's lips twitched.
"Alright then..." His father pinched the bridge of his nose. "Anything else you wish to share, Tristan?"
He snorted. "It hardly matters that Fleur knows about the locket; she knows about the Cloak too."
"Does she?" Tristan's father regarded them for a long moment before curling his fingers. The wardrobe opened and a folded piece of silver silk floated out, landing in Fleur's lap. "And what do you think of it, Fleur?"
Fleur closed her eyes, running her fingers over the smooth material. "I think the average invisibility cloak is useful for about a decade. But this one is different, non?" A small shudder swapped through her. "I've never felt magic like this... so old... and still so powerful. Your son said it's an heirloom..."
"It is." Tristan's father murmured, his expression unreadable. "I received that Cloak from my father, and he from his, and back it goes for almost a thousand years..."
"Incroyable," Fleur breathed, opening her eyes and cocking her head. "Tristan also said he can pass through any ward underneath it. The Musketeers disagreed with him..."
His father's jaw clenched. "So they know about it. I feared as much."
A shiver crawled down Tristan's spine. "Is it true then? Could they have really found a way?"
His father summoned the Cloak back into his hands. "You'll never feel magic like our Cloak's, Fleur, because it cannot be replicated by humans ever again. Invisible, intangible, undetectable, and unstoppable, like Death is." He sent the Cloak floating back into the wardrobe, closing the doors with a flick of his wrist. "Perhaps they've found some temporary loophole, but no wizard or witch ever managed to cheat Death permanently. They all fail."
Tristan drummed his fingers on his knee. "But how do they even know about the Cloak if our family has never shown it to anyone?" A grim certainty settled in the back of his mind. "You know who the Musketeers are, don't you? Were you friends with some of them once? Before you came to England?"
His father paled and exchanged a long look with his mother. "Stop it, Tristan. No more questions."
"Because I'm still around?" Fleur tilted her nose up. "You ought to get used to it. I've stayed by your son's side when he needed me. I've fought with him. Bled with him. Killed with him." She threaded her fingers through his, lifting their joined hands above the duvet. "And I will be by his side when we face them again."
'She would, wouldn't she?' Tristan studied the determined gleam in her bright blue eyes, unease gnawing at his gut with sharp, cold teeth. 'What if staying with me gets her killed one day?'
"No, you won't. Your little adventure ends right here and now," his mother snapped. "This isn't your fight, son. It never was. Finally get this into your head!"
Tristan smothered a stab of hot rage. "They've killed Dorea. They've polyjuiced themselves as my siblings. They've attacked our home. They've tried to kill me at multiple turns."
"We know what they did, Tristan!" his father growled.
"Then how is this not my fight?!"
"Because you're in over your head!" He shouted. "That is the truth, no matter how much you dislike it. And I will not have a child of mine killed for accepting it too late."
Tristan propelled himself up, ignoring the flash of pain across his stiff neck and back. "In over my head?!" he muttered, the words tasting foul as ash on his tongue.
Fleur's warm hand stopped him, stirring him back into the pillows with gentle pressure. "Your parents are right," she murmured, tucking the duvet back under his chin and intertwining their fingers. "We'll be in over our heads until they teach us."
"Excuse me?" His mother blurted, raising one slim eyebrow.
"Teach us, s'il te plait" Fleur repeated. "It's the only way you can make sure your son and I are better prepared next time, non?"
His father snorted. "Are you trying to blackmail us, Fleur?"
"Does it matter what we call it?" Fleur shrugged, holding the cold green eyes with her chin raised high. "You cannot lock us in this manor for the rest of our lives. We will encounter those Musketeers again, it's simply inevitable. Or do you think they'll stop looking for us now that we've killed one of their own?"
His father exchanged a silent glance with his wife, then studied them for a long moment, grinding his teeth. "Fine."
"What?" Tristan blinked. "You'll really teach us?"
His mother sighed, some of the tension leaving her stiff shoulders. "If you're anything like your sire, you won't just stop and as Fleur so kindly... established, we can't just lock you in your room forever. We'll teach you how to survive long enough to call for me and your father."
Fleur shifted on the edge of the bed. "Will you teach both of us?"
They stared at her, the ghost of a smile playing on his father's lips. "You know... you're very different from what I expected, Fleur..."
"Pourquoi? Because I am French?" A faint red hinge crept up her cheeks and her clasp on Tristan's hand tightened to the point of light pain. "Or because I am veela?"
"Father," Tristan growled.
He dismissed them with a wave of his hand. "I'm not bigoted against your kind, I'm just genuinely surprised. Usually, seventeen-year-old girls don't go to such lengths for a boy they've known for less than a year."
Fleur's eyes darkened and her fingers grew hot, slipping out of his. "I'm nothing like the shallow little girls you might know!"
"Clearly you're not," Tristan's mother hummed, cocking her head. "Little girls don't have what it takes to kill someone..."
Fleur turned her nose up, the dark draining from her eyes. "The English boy wasn't as good as he thought."
"What about the centauri?" His mother crossed her arms over her chest. "Were they as good as they thought?"
'She's told them?' Tristan tensed, his eyes flickering up to Fleur.
His father snorted. "No. Fleur hasn't told us anything but your reaction is all the confirmation we need. We made it our business to know what's been going on in the forest ever since that mess with Aragog."
"We asked them nicely to let us leave." A soft little thrill coursed through Tristan's veins, dulling the ache. "They refused. They chose to become obstacles."
"And so you slaughtered an entire herd?"
Wry humor tugged at Tristan's thoughts. "Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"
"It sounds reckless." His father's jaw twitched. "And recklessness has claimed the lives of many great wizards and witches before."
"Thank Merlin, I'm under the tutelage of my prodigious parents now." Tristan folded his stiff arms behind his head. "Could you share a timetable by any chance? Oh, and when is the first lesson?"
"Not until you've been cleared by Narcissa." His father sighed. "I trust Fleur to make sure you're not doing anything stupid while recovering."
"Bien sûr." Fleur scooped open the drawer of his nightstand and took out his pale wand, slipping it down the front of her dress. "There. No more distractions."
Tristan's father shook with stifled laughter. "On second thought, perhaps Dobby should look after our son. I vaguely remember Narcissa mentioning strenuous physical activ-"
His mother elbowed him, shooting him a glare before jabbing her finger at Tristan. "No magic, Tristan. Seriously."
He held up his hands. "My wand is quite literally out of reach."
His mother huffed. "And no silly wandless magic either!" Her eyes softened and she dashed forward, hugging him tight and pressing kisses to his forehead. "I'm sorry I'm being so harsh. I'm just... I'm just very relieved that you're okay."
Tristan swallowed the hot lump in his throat. "I think I understand. And I'll do my best not to cause you any more stress. Someone told me it's not healthy for the baby."
She let out a weak sob and drew back, wiping teary eyes. "Thank you, dear."
His father slipped an arm around her waist. "We'll pick up your siblings from your aunt and uncle and return later tonight. Get some rest, Tristan."
His parents left arm in arm and shut the door behind them, their footsteps echoing down the corridor.
Tristan pushed the duvet away and took a deep breath, dragging himself up with shaky arms. "I've rested plenty already," he muttered over the rumble of his stomach. "I'm starving and I need to get my strength ba-"
"You will stay in bed if you know what's good for you." Fleur's bright blue eyes held a sharp gleam between her veil of silver-blonde hair. "Wait here. I'll get you something from downstairs."
She slipped her hands under his arms and helped him up against the headrest, propping the cushion up under his back before she slipped off the bed and vanished with a faint snap.
Tristan blinked. "Did she just-"
Fleur reappeared with a blue porcelain bowl in her hands.
"-apparate..."
He frowned. "My parents keyed you into our wards?"
"Oui," Fleur murmured. "Your mother decided it was easier than picking me up by the edge of the ward line anytime I visited." She closed her eyes and cupped the bowl in both hands until it steamed and a soft rich scent stirred in Tristan's nose. "Voilá."
A spark of warmth blossomed in his breast. "You came by often then?"
"Bien sûr." Fleur conjured a slim silver spoon and stirred the soup. "I came by every day." She caught his eye and climbed next to him onto the bed with a small smirk.
Tristan snorted. "I'm confident I can still feed myself."
"I promised to take care of you, non?" Fleur dipped the spoon into the soup and held it to his lips. "Say ahh, mon Coeur."
Her soft whisper sent a hot flutter through his stomach and Tristan curled his toes underneath the duvet as he obliged, slurping several mouthfuls of warm rich broth.
"Bon." A little gleam sprang into her eyes as she scraped around in the bowl and lifted the last spoonful to his lips. "How was it?"
"Good." Tristan sighed and let the heat of the soup pool in his belly. It soaked through him like summer sun, easing the ache in his arms and legs. "Very good."
A small smile hovered on her lips. "It's a French recipe. Your sisters and I made it together."
"I'm glad you bonded with them while I was sleeping." Tristan laughed. "Did you get up to anything else fun together?"
Her smile wilted. "Non, I spent most of my time up here with you." She lowered the spoon back into the bowl and squirmed to the edge of the bed to place it on the nightstand. "I didn't want to bother your family too much after we figured out why it was necessary to put you in a coma."
Tristan scoffed. "That's ridiculous, they couldn't possibly hold that against you."
"They tried not to, but I could see it in their eyes." She bit her lip, something fragile sparkling in her eyes before she glanced away. "If it wasn't for me-"
"-I would've fought Flint and the two Musketeers all by myself and likely gotten killed," Tristan said, clasping her hand to stop her leaving the bed. "I didn't know what I was doing with that portkey and neither did you. But this is not your fault, Fleur."
She whirled on him, eyes flashed a tad darker. "Would you tell me the same if you were a squib now? How is it not my fault if you save my life but pay the price for it?"
Unease coiled inside him, clamping tight about his heart.
"I'm not the one saving your life." The image of Fleur in her crimson dress flashed through his mind and the tight knot of anxiety clenched in his stomach, goading his gut into a cold, sick churning. "Perhaps you'd be in a much better place if you weren't involved with me."
'It's just as Father warned me. Because one day we won't get so lucky.'
Fleur's slim brows drew together and her finger grew hot. "That's not-"
"-yes, it is true." Tristan sucked in a deep breath as his heart began hammering against his rips. "The acromantulae in the forest. The portkey in the maze. The Centauri, and now the Musketeers." He shivered, a cold, sick feeling settling in his stomach. "I haven't saved your life once. I'm the one risking it, again and again..."
Fleur stared at him. "What is it you're trying to say? Do you want me to leave you after everything we went through?"
Tristan's heart froze. 'Leave me?' He stared at her, his stomach churning and the lock around his breast squeezing so tight it hurt to breathe. "I want you to be safe, but I can't… I don't-" A sharp twist of need snagged on his tongue, holding the words back.
Fleur cupped his jaw, tilting his head back up until his eyes met hers. "I'd be safer in France. C'est vrai." Her trembling breath washed across his neck and her long lashes fluttered. "But if that's where you'd prefer me then why don't you say it, Tristan?"
'Why not?' Tristan's heart raced as he drank in the sight of her; the deep blue of her summer-sky eyes, the cascade of blonde hair over her shoulder, glowing like spun silver, the soft curve of her red lips. 'It's so simple, no?'
"Because I need you with me, Fleur. And because-" Tristan stared at her, his heart lurching in his breast. "And because I love you."
Triumph flashed in Fleur's eyes and she crushed her lips against his.