The words stole her next breath. For a wild second, she thought he meant to end everything, to declare himself bored and withdraw his aid. Panic clawed at her chest.
He must have seen it, for his gaze softened, grew more intent.
“I am concerned,” he added. “There is a difference.”
Her composure faltered. She gripped the edge of the bench.
“Do not,” she whispered, hardly knowing what she was begging him for.
Do not be kind. Do not make this harder. Do not see me.
He lifted a hand very slowly so that she might refuse if she wished. She did not.
His fingers touched her cheek, a light, questioning stroke. The contact sent a shock through her, hot and startling, as if some long-neglected part of her had just remembered it was alive.
“Gwen,” he murmured, her name quieter this time. “You have been holding yourself as if the world means to strike you. It is allowed to put your weight elsewhere for a moment.”
Tears pricked her eyes, and one escaped before she could stop it. It slid down and landed on his thumb. His face contorted, not in horror, but in something like fierce resolve.
He bent and kissed her.
The first touch of his mouth was careful, almost reverent, as if he feared she might shatter. Her lips parted on a soft, startled breath. Heat flared where they met, then spread in a slow, bewildering tide.
This was not the fleeting, stolen kiss of the garden. This was something that unfolded, that asked for her answer and waited for it.
She gave it.
Her hand rose of its own accord, her fingers curling into the fabric of his coat.
She had not known what to expect. She had not expected the strange rightness of it, the way her body seemed to recognize an intimacy her mind did not yet have the words for.
His mouth moved against hers with measured pressure, coaxing rather than consuming. Every small shift seemed to ask,Is this too much? Is this enough?
When he drew back at last, she felt the absence like a chill.
She searched his face, her breath unsteady. “I should not have allowed that.”
He rose from the bench as if giving her space, as if he sensed she might run if he remained too close. “You did not allow it,” he corrected her. “You participated in it.”
“That is worse,” she muttered.
They remained like that for a moment, separated by the narrow breadth of the instrument, the air thick with everything that had been left unsaid.
Her heart pounded so loudly she was certain he could hear it. She should leave. She should draw herself up, adjust her cloak, remind him of their terms, and walk away with what remained of her senses.
Instead, she found her feet moving.
She rose from the bench. The room seemed smaller now, as if the walls had shifted inward. Victor watched her with a stillness that felt as dangerous as any shout.
“I should go,” she whispered.
“Perhaps,” he said, his voice low. “Do you wish to?”
That was the question, was it not?
She stood within reach of the door and of him. Both led to safety, but his was a very different sort.
“I do not know,” she sighed.
