He said, “If worse comes to worst, it would be worth it to me to bargain with a full Djinn to try to break through to home.”

“You don’t know that it would work,” she warned. “Don’t waste a costly, unpredictable bargain on such a big gamble. Let me try first. I won’t make you promise to do something random, like give up your firstborn son or assassinate a head of state, or make me a bowl of homemade guacamole. Djinn are weird. Trust me. I lived with them for a couple of years. I know.”

It was hard to rein in his galloping thoughts, but after a moment, he nodded.

As she crossed the lawn back to the big, double front doors, he followed. Placing both hands on one of the doors, she stood for a while with her head bowed.

He would not interrupt her like some undisciplined, half-trained youth. He would not. Crossing his arms, he glared out over the clearing while he clenched down on the powerful, uncontrolled emotions coursing through his veins.

Enough time passed that he was beginning to rethink that position and ask her what she was doing.

Then something happened. Something so fine and subtle that if he hadn’t already been hyperalert, he might have missed it.

He whipped his head around to stare at her. “What was that?”

She shook her head. Now she leaned her whole body against one of the doors, and she had inserted a large, old key into the lock. “I’m trying to shift into alignment with the door,” she muttered. “I got close enough to turn the key in the lock, but I can’t push the door open. I might not be aligned well enough, or the door might be stuck. It hasn’t been opened in a really long time.”

“Here, let me help.” He positioned his body behind hers, placing both flattened hands against the sturdy wood. “Let me know when to push.”

“Okay.” She went silent again, head turned to one side. He watched her profile, the tense, minute shifts in her expression. Her eyes were closed, the delicate muscles fluttering underneath that fine, creamy skin.

Then that subtle something happened again.

She said, “Now.”

He threw all his strength and weight against the heavy oak door, all the power of his frustration, his grief and anger over the years, everything.

For a brief, heartrending moment, nothing happened. Then with a gigantic, rusty creak, the door sprang open so suddenly Sophie plunged forward to sprawl flat on dusty flagstones just inside the dim interior of the house. Caught by surprise, he fell awkwardly on top of her.

She coughed. “Fuck. Ow.”

The door was open.

Nikolas lifted his weight, urged her over, and when she flopped onto her back, he landed back on top of her and said into her face, “The door’s open.”

She coughed again and laughed, threw her arms around his neck and laughed some more. Exhilaration plunged at breakneck speed through his body. He cupped her head and laughed with her, and she looked so beautiful in that moment, with those gorgeous eyes dancing and her face lit with delight, he lost himself in the desire to kiss her again.

She kissed him back, meeting his every shift and caress fiercely, tenderly, sensually, only breaking away from his mouth to suck in another gulp of air. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“I landed hard on top of you too,” he muttered. Finally, with an effort at some self-control, he pulled away from her reclining body. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry! We’re in. I’m in! This is my house now.” Lying there on the flagstones, she flung her arms wide and laughed again. The exuberance in her voice was impossible to resist. He grinned. “My land. Mine. Do you know I’ve never owned any property before?” Suddenly she sat up and stared at him. “Wait, the property isn’t really mine, not yet. I need to send proof that I got inside to Kathryn so that she can acknowledge it and transfer ownership.”

“What kind of proof does she need?” Nikolas rolled to his feet and offered a hand to Sophie, who accepted it. He hauled her upright.

“She said a photo would do, but I don’t think I can take a photo from inside the house. My flashlight worked outside, but the land magic feels too strong in here.” She frowned.

“Give me your phone and stand in the middle of the open doorway,” he told her. “I’ll take a photo of you from some distance back. It’ll be irrefutable. You’re in.”

“Good idea.” She dug out her phone and handed it to him.

She had a standard smartphone with familiar apps. Loping across the lawn, he spun and thumbed through the apps to the camera and trained it on her. She stood with one hand gripping the edge of the open door, still grinning from ear-to-ear.

He snapped several photos, then checked the phone.

“Got it!” he called out.

She bolted across the lawn toward him, hands out, beaming. “Gimme.”

“Hold on a moment,” he said, moving his fingers rapidly over the small keyboard.

“What are you doing to my phone?”

“You didn’t save my number when you texted me earlier. I programmed my number into it.” He tossed the phone to her. She snatched it out of the air and checked the screen. Then as he watched, she thumbed through her contacts, chose one, and sent several photos.

When she had finished, she twisted around to stare at the open door. Then she checked her phone. “Oh man, I’m going to keep checking my phone until she responds. What is the time difference between here and New York, when it’s midafternoon here?”