Panic and hope war inside me. It’s up to me, as it has always been. I can ask him or not. Asking him is terrifying. But not asking would be so much worse.
“Yes, I’m asking. Hector, I—”
With a swift motion, he cups the back of my head and presses his warm lips to mine. The pit of my stomach drops away as I open my mouth to his.
He groans, wrapping his other arm around my waist, pulling me toward him until I am almost in his lap. I arch against him; my breath comes fast as he explores my mouth. Before, his kisses were patient and sweet. But there is nothing of sweetness in him now, just heat and desperate need.
He tangles his fingers in my hair and yanks my head back, breaking our kiss. I let out a little “Oh!” of disappointment, but then he’s sliding his mouth along my jaw, to the pulse at my throat. “Elisa,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to do this for a long, long time.”
His words send me spiraling with dizzy gladness. I clutch at his hair—it’s even softer than I imagined—and press my lips to the top of his head. I close my eyes, wanting to memorize this perfect moment, and I breathe deeply of leather oil and fresh-washed jungle and something a little sharper, something distinctly Hector.
His lips brush my collarbone and then dip lower, toward my breasts. I slide my hands to the hem of his shirt and start to pull, desperate for more, more skin, more him.
He freezes. Then he pushes me away.
“Hector?” I gasp out, suddenly aching and bereft.
He closes his eyes tight, takes a deep breath. Opens them. They are huge and warm and . . . wet? as he whispers, “Elisa . . . I . . .”
Why did he stop? Did I do something wrong?
He tries again. “I can’t. I won’t.” He slides back, putting cold hard space between us.
I pull my knees to my chest, curl into a tight ball. This is what I’ve feared, why it was so hard to ask. I find myself shaking my head against whatever comes next.
“I need to explain,” he says.
I find a tatter of pride and say, “No, you don’t owe me an—”
“I said I need to explain.”
I rest my chin on my knee to steady myself. “All right.”
He says, “You have every possible power over me.”
“What?”
“You have the power of a dear friend, you have all the power that a beautiful woman has over a man who loves her, and most importantly, you are my sovereign. You have the power to command me in everything.”
Something about his choice of words makes me angry. “You have plenty of power over me too,” I say.
But it’s like a dam of control has burst, and he hardly hears me for needing to get out all the thoughts that have been spinning in his head.
“Have I told you about my parents?” he asks. “They’re best friends. Partners in everything.” His eyes grow distant as he talks, and his mouth curves into a sad smile. “I’ve watched them my whole life, the way they are with each other. So easy and natural. They finish each other’s sentences. They can exchange a look across the dining table and instantly know what the other is thinking.”
The gaze he turns on me is fierce, like he’s desperate for me to understand. “Neither is subject to the other; they’re more like two halves of a whole. And that intertwining of lives, of being, it’s amazing to see. Being lovers . . . it feels like it would be such a big thing, yes?”
God, yes.
“But it’s only the littlest bit of who they are together. And theirs is the only kind of love I could have with you. Anything else makes me less.” He takes a deep breath, as if steeling himself. “I won’t become a helpless marionette or a temporary diversion for my queen.”
Pain blooms beneath my breastbone, because I’m starting to understand.
He grabs my hands. I lower my knees and let him draw me toward him until our foreheads touch. “I understand how careful you have to be with your alliances right now. So when we get back from this, you’ll marry someone else. I will too. Maybe your sister. We might be able to arrange a tryst on occasion, and God, part of me thinks I should do anything, anything, if it means having you once in a while. But it wouldn’t be enough.” His thumbs caress my knuckles. “Don’t you see, Elisa? I love you the way a drowning man loves air. And it would destroy me to have you just a little.”
I choke on a sob, and tears leak from my eyes. It’s the cruelest of cruelties, for him to love me so deeply but refuse to have me.
He lifts his fingers toward my face and gently, so gently, wipes a tear from my cheek. He says, “I’m glad to know, though, that you think of me that way. I’ll always remember that.”