Her breath hitched. “I think… I’d be afraid.”
“So would I,” he admitted, leaning closer. “But only because I want the chance to ask him—to ask you—properly.”
Her heart pounded wildly and recklessly, but now she had to know, or she thought she’d faint right then. “You want to court me?”
“For months, I didn’t dare ask,” he said. “But tonight… may I?”
She didn’t answer with words. She lifted her chin and he was already so close. His lips brushed hers, tentative at first, offering her every chance to pull back. But she’d never! And then, he deepened the kiss, gentle and certain, and her knees went weak.
His hand cupped her jaw with the care of a man who could heal but never harm. She pressed into him, fingers fisting in his coat, everybit of her coming alive.
When he finally drew back, he lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles, slow and reverent.
“Goodnight, Maisie,” he whispered.
But she caught his coat, tugged him back down to her, and this time her kiss was urgent, hungry, her voice breaking against his lips. “Teach me how to kiss you properly. I’ve waited long enough.”
Chapter Three
The next morning,she was everywhere. First in the hall, slipping past him with a tray balanced on her hands, then lingering by the treatment room door. She had no reason to hover, and yet her shoulder brushed his sleeve each time she passed. Lavender clung to her like a secret, threaded with the sharper tang of clove oil. The scent lodged in his throat until he could hardly swallow and Faivish longed for nothing more than to press his lips to hers for another kiss.
Teach me how to kiss you properly.
Her words. Simple and innocent. He’d not been able to sleep all night after he had, in fact, taught her. And yet, he had so much more to show her.
I just can’t wait.
But he needed her father’s permission to court her, it was the respect his professor, mentor, and her only living parent deserved. She was precious and deserved his utmost respect and honor.
By mid-morning, Faivish was bent over his instruments when she appeared again, tray in hand—and a thin line of red glistening across her finger.
“Maisie,” he said, sharper than he meant, crossing to her before she could set the tray down. “You’ve cut yourself.”
“It’s nothing—”
“Let me see.” The command left his mouth before he could temper it. He caught her hand gently but firmly, turning it into the light.The nick was shallow, but the bead of blood shone bright against her skin. He pressed a clean cloth to it, steady as though she were a patient in the chair, not the woman he thought of every single second of his life.
She watched him, lashes lowered, her breathing slowing until it matched the measured rhythm of his own. The room seemed to shrink to the fragile weight of her hand in his and the soft flutter of her pulse beneath his thumb.
Without thinking, he lifted her hand just enough to bare the curve of her fingertips. He brushed his lips there—careful, not against the cut, but close enough that the warmth of his mouth drew the sting away. The thought came swift and undeniable: if he could, he would take every hurt from her. Always and forever.
Her lashes flickered, a small start of surprise. But she didn’t pull back. He felt the moment she yielded, her fingers softening until they curled lightly around his, keeping him there. His thumb traced her skin, slow and deliberate, finding the quickened beat beneath. That pulse thrummed through him like a tether, intoxicating.
He held her gaze, memorizing the lamplight on her cheek, the faint parting of her lips, the way each breath seemed to catch before it left her. Lavender. Clove. Her. He would never breathe them again without remembering this exact moment.
And she let him press his mouth to her hand. She let him hold her there, suspended on the thin edge between propriety and something far more dangerous.
The scrape of shoes broke the spell.
He glanced up. Professor Morgenschein stood in the doorway, silent. His gaze fell to where Faivish still cradled Maisie’s hand. It lingered, unreadable, before it rose again to meet his eyes. No anger—only recognition, and something else that weighed heavier than words.
Faivish released her slowly, but the imprint of her hand burned inhis palm. Morgenschein inclined his head once, as if he’d seen enough, and turned away.
Faivish’s resolve hardened. He would ask permission. Now.
It wasn’t infatuation, nor the kind of careless tryst that Vienna’s gossips might imagine. Faivish wanted a life with Maisie. And after last night—after the way she’d kissed him back, the way her hand had lingered in his—he knew she would welcome his offer if her father gave his blessing. Today, he told himself, he would ask.
But the moment never came.
