That it was with him, the dark markings on his arms, barely visible in the room but undoubtedly there, making it impossible for me to forget who he was, what he stood for, should have extinguished my ardor, should have kept me away from him in the first place.
But my will and my body were out of sync, and instead of moving away, I burrowed even closer.
“I should go,” he said in his deep, raspy voice, the faint lilt of his accent like honey against my ears, so much so that I missed what he said.
When I finally grasped the words, I broke away and sat up quickly, taking the sheet with me.
“I’m sorry… I…” I stopped, wondering what to say, knowing that the truth, that I was busy pretending that this was real, that him holding me, kissing me, meant something. I knew that it did—as much as it couldn’t, as much as I didn’t want it to, it had, even if only for these few hours. But I couldn’t say that to him, could hardly admit it to myself. I finally settled on, “Thank you.”
He clamped a hand around my neck and pulled me to him and kissed me, so deeply, so thoroughly, I forgot how embarrassed I’d been moments ago. When he broke the kiss, I was panting.
“That’s a better good-bye,” he said.
I blinked. Blinked again. “Um, Anton, I don’t want you to think… I mean, I’m not…”
He released a short little laugh and then smiled, his eyes soft. “I’ve never seen my Lily tongue-tied.”
His Lily.
The thought of it, of being his, was better than I wanted to admit.
“I just…I don’t want you to think that I expect anything from you or that you owe me anything. That this meant something it didn’t,” I finally said.
His smile dropped and his eyes clouded, but he soon regained his usual, somewhat placid expression and kissed me again, this time sweetly. “We’ll decide what this meant and what it didn’t later, okay? But for now, I must go.”
I nodded, but he didn’t move, kept his gaze glued to mine.
“What is it, Lily?” he asked, his patient, soothing tone making me feel all the more a fool. A fool who couldn’t resist speaking her thoughts.
“You’re not leaving because of me… I mean, this”—I gestured at the pillows—“was okay?” I said, wishing I could drop through the floor from embarrassment, but needing to know what he thought, what, if anything, he had felt.
He cupped my cheek, worked his thumb against the bone, the motion drawing my gaze to the spots of ink on his wrist until he tilted my head until I met his gaze again. “You know why I’m leaving?” he asked.
I went with my first thought. “Because I’m clinging?”
“No,” he said, moving his thumb a little faster. “Because I want to take you again. And again. But you’re not ready. So I’ll go and not risk the temptation.”
“Oh,” I said, warmth suffusing me as I processed what he’d said, that warmth becoming full, bone-deep happiness when I finally did. “I think I could. Take you again, I mean.”
In a blink, his patient gaze turned hot with desire. “You tempt me, Lily. But no. I’ll leave. Come, make sure the door is locked behind me,” he said.
I watched him dress and then stood on shaky legs, not bothering to dress when I saw the way he looked at me, his clear appreciation stifling any nerves. He kissed me one last time, then left, though I didn’t hear his steps until after I’d bolted the door.
I exhaled when he left, not having realized that I’d been holding my breath.
I made my way back to my bedroom and fell into my bed, my body the best kind of tired it had ever felt, my mind racing.
Being with him, enjoying it, craving it again…it was wrong.
Being with him, enjoying it, craving it again…it felt so very right.
Calling it physical, tossing it off as a simple sex act, a base human action detached from feeling, would have been easy, and preferable, but that felt wrong. Untrue. Because what had happened here tonight was more than that.
The way he’d touched me, kissed me, talked to me. The way he’d cared for me. All of it had been more than sex.
And that was terrifying.
Because in those moments, I’d seen beyond the tattoos, beyond Clan Constantin, beyond my hate, seen a man, a kind one, one I could care about.
One who could put my heart and my quest at risk.
Twelve
Lily
“Lily.”
Christoph’s voice came out weak, gravelly, and I could hear the effort it took for him to speak. I stood, crossed over to him, my eyes locked with his, and it hit me again. They were Anton’s eyes. They were dulled with age, but the resemblance was unmistakable. Anton had said that no one ever spoke of their relationship, but they didn’t really have to. One look at Christoph, and I knew, and I didn’t doubt everyone else did too.