“This. Managing. Directing. Pushing me away.”
He turned abruptly, forcing her to step back. “Is that so terrible?” His eyes sparked, not with anger but with the panic of a breached wall.
“Yes!” she hissed, shoving her hands into her shawl. “You act as if I am some recalcitrant child rather than a woman who knows what she wants.”
He stepped forward. “What do you want, Lydia?” The use of her name was deliberate—a challenge and a plea.
She braced herself. “I want you to stop treating me as if I am fragile.”
He laughed, humorless. “You are the least fragile person I have ever met.”
“Then why do you act as if every step I take is a crisis?”
He moved again.
She held her ground.
“Because every step you take is a risk. And I...” He bit off the sentence, leaving the rest unsaid.
She pressed in, chin tilted up. “You what?”
He matched her gaze, breathing hard. “I care. Is that what you want to hear? That I care enough to want you safe, even from yourself? Even from me?”
Her heart raced. “I never asked for your protection.”
He gave a sharp, incredulous laugh. “You never ask. You demand. You dare. You make it impossible to look away, even when it would be safer.”
She shook her head, a strand slipping free to catch the lantern light. “Is that what you think? That I exist to antagonize you?”
“I think,” he said, stepping so close that the air between them vibrated, “that you exist to test every limit. Including mine.”
For a moment, she thought he would grab her or walk away.
Instead, he said, his voice trembling, “You are impossible.”
Her composure slipped. Frustration turned into something else. “And you are insufferable.”
He caught her wrist firm enough to hold, not to hurt. “Say it,” he demanded.
“Let go,” she said, not meaning it.
“Not until you tell me what you really want.”
She opened her mouth, but the words tangled behind her lips. Only a small, involuntary sound escaped—half sob, half laugh.
He pulled her forward, their bodies colliding. His mouth found hers, hard, all of their restraint burned up in an instant.
She froze for a beat—his mouth, his grip, the taste of brandy. Then she opened to him, fisting his lapels and pulling him closer.
The kiss was a clash—heat and tongues, the desperate friction of months—days—of wanting things they should not. His tongue traced the edge of her lower lip, and she bit it, just hard enough to startle him. He crushed her closer until her chest pressed against his and her feet barely touched the ground.
The world narrowed to heat, soft lips, and sharp breaths as they tried to regain control and failed.
They broke apart, propelled by their own momentum. Lydia staggered back, gasping, herfingers still clutching the front of his coat. Maximilian’s face was flushed, his hair wild, and his eyes seemed nearly black in the shifting lamplight.
They stared, their ragged breathing and the distant shuffle of restless horses the only sounds.
Lydia pressed the back of her hand to her lips, relishing and steadying. “Well,” she said, her voice rough but triumphant, “that was certainly?—”
