He laughed, a broken sound. “So did I.”
They were so close now that he could see the smattering of freckles on her nose, the way her lips trembled with each breath. He didn’t touch her, not yet, but the urge was nearly unbearable.
She looked at him, her face soft and vulnerable, and he thought he might break in two.
“Why do you stay away?” she asked, her voice so small that it nearly killed him.
He reached out, his hand trembling, and cupped her elbow, feeling the heat of her through the muslin. She didn’t pull away.
“Because if I let myself have you, even a little, I’ll never be able to stop. And that’s not what you signed up for.”
She reached up, grabbed the front of his shirt in both fists, her anger and grief and longing warring in her eyes. “Let me decide what I signed up for.”
He bowed his head, pressing his forehead to hers. “Fine,” he whispered, his voice raw. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Her hands slid up to his shoulders, then his neck, tentative, as if she expected him to vanish at any moment.
“Rhys,” she breathed.
He tilted her chin up, forcing her to look at him. For a long, suspended moment, he just gazed at her, memorizing the way her lashes caught the light, the faint smudge of ink on her wrist, the wild tumble of hair that framed her face.
“Celine,” he said softly, “the only way I can keep my promise to you is by staying far, far away.”
Chapter Twenty
Celine’s heart pounded so furiously that she wondered if Rhys could feel it. He was standing so near, their bodies almost touching.
For a moment, he didn’t move. Then, he gently pressed his forehead to hers, as if trying to memorize her. His hands slipped from the wall and cradled her arms, the pressure so gentle that it nearly undid her.
Celine wanted to reach for him, pull him closer, but she held back, waiting, because if she moved—if she let herself want this—she feared what might come out of her mouth.
He pulled back just enough so she could see his face, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes—those impossible, wounded eyes—dark with a need she recognized too well.
He sighed, a sound so resigned that it made her chest ache, and straightened. The connection broke.
He turned away from her, his shoulders tense, his hands curled into fists at his sides.
“No,” she blurted, the word slipping out before she could think.
He froze, one foot already toward the door, his back to her.
“Wait,” she called, louder this time.
He stood so still that she thought he might shatter. “Don’t,” he said quietly, not turning around.
But she wasn’t done. Not after everything. Not after finally understanding what it was that she wanted.
“What if I don’t want a marriage of convenience?” Her voice trembled, but she pushed on, reckless now, bold on the edge of disaster. “What if I want to break the rules, too?”
His hands flexed at his sides, but he didn’t move.
She stepped toward him, emboldened by his silence. “Rhys, look at me.”
He turned around slowly, his face tight, as if he was already grieving what he would do next.
She reached for his hand. “You said if you let yourself have me, you’d never be able to stop. What if I don’t want you to stop?”
He stared at her, stunned, as if the words were a foreign language. Then he was moving, surging forward so quickly that she barely had time to gasp before his arms wrapped around her and his mouth claimed hers.
