"We can work this out," I said. "Whatever you want. I'll take the blame. I'll?—"
"Stop," she interrupted.
I stopped.
She took a long drag from the cigarette, her hand shaking slightly. When she exhaled, the smoke was torn away by the wind.
"I don't want your apologies, Byron," she said. "I wanted your fight."
I frowned. "What?"
She looked at me then—really looked—and something in her expression cracked.
The fight drained out of her all at once, leaving her deflated. Smaller.
Sad.
Her hand shook as she fished out another cigarette. The first one had burned down to nothing.
I stepped forward without thinking and held the lighter for her, my hand steady where hers trembled.
Her skin was cold. Papery. Nothing like the soft, warm flesh I'd kissed and marveled over decades ago.
Where had that woman gone?
Victoria inhaled deeply, then met my eyes.
"You always had a way of confusing me," she said softly. "You always knew how to push my buttons."
I didn't know what to say to that.
"What I wouldn't do," she murmured, "to go back and do it all over again."
The wistfulness in her voice hit me harder than anger ever could.
She looked at Micah then, her gaze lingering on him for a long moment.
Then back to me.
"You've ruined it for me," she said. "Again."
"What?" I asked.
"I wanted you to fight me," she said. "I wanted fists against claws. A war. Something I could sink my teeth into."
She smiled faintly, sadly.
"But just like Byron Dane," she continued, "you threw me another curveball."
She flicked the cigarette away, the ember arcing into the darkness.
The wind caught a strand of her hair, pulling it loose from the perfect coif she'd maintained all night.
And for just a second—one brief, stolen second—I saw her.
The young Victoria. The woman with fire in her eyes and sex in her smile. The woman I'd loved before everything fell apart.
C'est la vie,she said quietly.
