"The truth," Gregory said simply. "Whatever it is. I can handle the truth, Anthea. It is the polite deflections that drive me mad."
She looked at him—really looked at him. At the way he watched her with patient intensity. At the slight tension in his shoulders that suggested he was not as calm as he appeared. At the vulnerability in his eyes that he was allowing her to see.
"I have been avoiding you," she said finally. "Because being near you is... difficult."
"Difficult how?"
"Because you make me want things I swore I would never want again." The confession emerged before she could stop it. "Because you look at me like I matter, and I do not know what to do with that. Because every time you touch me, every time you call me brilliant or extraordinary, I want to believe you. And that terrifies me."
Gregory's expression softened. "Why does it terrify you?"
"Because I believed someone once before," Anthea said, the words tasting bitter. "Believed his pretty words and his promises. And I was wrong. So wrong that it nearly destroyed me."
"Maxwell Tinkett," Gregory said quietly.
Anthea's breath caught. "How do you know that name?"
"Your sisters mentioned him. Carefully. Protectively. They did not tell me details, only that someone had hurt you badly enough that you vowed never to trust a man again." Gregory's hand tightened on hers. "I need you to understand something, Anthea. I am not him. Whatever he did, whatever he promised and failed to deliver—I am not that man."
"I know you are not," Anthea whispered. "That is what makes this so frightening. Because if you were like him, I could dismiss you. Could keep my walls up and feel justified in doing so. But you are nothing like him. You are honest and direct and you keep your promises. Which means when you hurt me?—"
"If I hurt you," Gregory corrected gently.
"When," Anthea insisted. "Everyone hurts everyone eventually. That is simply how the world works. And when you hurt me, it will destroy me in a way Maxwell never could. Because this time, I will have chosen it. Chosen to be vulnerable. Chosen to hope."
Gregory was quiet for a long moment, his thumb tracing circles on the back of her hand.
"Do you remember," he said finally, "when you fell into the lake at the menagerie?"
The abrupt change in subject threw her. "Yes, of course. You saved me."
"I told you I would have done it for anyone," Gregory continued. "And that was true. I would have jumped in regardless of who was drowning. But—" He paused, seeming to choose his words carefully. "What I did not tell you was that with every step I took running toward that lake, I was praying. Praying it was not you. Praying that when I got there, I would find it was someone else—anyone else—who needed saving."
Anthea's breath caught. "Why?"
"Because even then, when we barely knew each other, the thought of losing you was unbearable." Gregory's eyes held hers, intense and unwavering. "I did not understand it at the time. We had only met a handful of times. Had argued more than we had agreed. But the fear I felt in those moments—running toward that lake, not knowing—it was unlike anything I had experienced. Even in battle, even facing death myself, I had never felt that particular terror."
"You are just saying that," Anthea said, but her voice shook. "To make me give in. To make me?—"
"I am saying it because it is true," Gregory interrupted. "And because I am done pretending. Done being afraid of what is growing between us."
He cupped her face with both hands, forcing her to meet his eyes.
"I am falling in love with you, Anthea. Perhaps I have been since that first night in the music room when you refused to be intimidated by me. And I understand that terrifies you. I understand you have been hurt before, that you have every reason to guard your heart. But I need you to know—I see you. All of you. The brilliant, stubborn, occasionally infuriating woman who makes me want to be better than I am. And I want you. Not some diminished version designed to make me comfortable. You. Exactly as you are."
"Gregory—" Anthea's voice broke.
"You do not have to say anything," Gregory said softly. "You do not have to return my feelings. But I needed you to know. Needed you to understand that this is real. That I am not playing games or making empty promises. That when I tell you that you are extraordinary, I mean it with every fiber of my being."
Anthea stared at him, her heart pounding so hard she thought it might break through her ribs.
He loved her.
Gregory loved her.
Not the careful, convenient partnership they had agreed to. Not the practical arrangement designed to benefit them both. But actual, messy, terrifying love.
And she?—
