Gods, Cyrus was a good man. Thoughtful, kind, decisive when he needed to be. He wanted to love someone as much as she wanted to be loved.
So how come, when she looked at his dear, handsome face, she only felt a twisting sense of unease in her gut?
There were no butterflies. There was only the steady feeling of friendly warmth andguilt.
“Thank you, Cyrus. I want that as well,” she managed to reply, though the words tasted like ash in her mouth.
Shedidwant that. Just… not with him.
Cyrus’s smile was wide and shyly pleased. He shared a look with his mother, who simply nodded and gave his bulging bicep a small, affectionate pat.
“If there cannot be fate, then theremustbe affection,” Arabella proclaimed. “Otherwise I would not have agreed to negotiating a union at all. We have not had much need of them in the past.”
“Yes, I know that your family has been very lucky.” Almost absurdly lucky, in fact. Of the last four generations, only a handful of the Noors had produced offspring through a union. Glory had blessed them again and again with elvish consorts, making the necessity of a loveless agreement moot.
Arabella nodded. “We have, and I was prepared to let my son find his way naturally, but…”
“I insisted.” Cyrus reached up to touch his ear — a nervous habit she noticed all the way back when they first met in the vineyard years ago. He looked at the camera through his long, curly lashes, a smile playing at the edges of his lips. “I know we’re not consorts, but I like spending time with you.”
“I enjoy spending time with you, too, Cyrus. Youandyour family.” She forced a smile and, out of sight of the camera, fisted her hands so tightly the seams of her gloves creaked. “Now, let’s talk about what you might want out of a union. I want to be sure our needs are compatible as well as our personalities.”
Cyrus rubbed his ear again. “Well, I’d like for us to live together, if it wouldn’t bother you too much. I’m not a city person, though, and I worry that will upset you.”
Gods, he’s such a sweet, honest soul.
“It wouldn’t upset me,” she firmly replied. “I don’t particularly like the city. I prefer to live in the countryside if I can.”
“Would you keep the vineyard?” Arabella asked.
“Only if I were contracted with someone who didn’t wish to live together.” Someone like Epifanio, though she wouldn’t know that for certain until they met. “Otherwise, I would most likely leave it to my brother and his consort to run. It wouldn’t do well without someone consistently on site.”
“You would give up the vineyard to live with me?” Cyrus peered at her, his eyes wide.
“I would, yes. It’s better for children to live in one place consistently, anyway.” Besides, she wasn’t as attached to the wine making business as she seemed. Camille enjoyed it, certainly, but it had also been her mother’s choice of pastime — one that she’d forced on her daughter. It wouldn’t be too great a hardship to leave it behind.
Cyrus and his mother shared a look. Turning back to the camera, Arabella said, “Well, perhaps you would be interested in taking over some of our wine operations. We would not want to uproot you from everything and give nothing in return.”
Camille was touched by the gesture. Her voice was husky when she said, “That is… very kind of you. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Cyrus insisted in his soft, serious way. “I only want to make you happy.”
Again, guilt twisted her up. Guilt over her slip-up with Viktor. Guilt over her potentially dangerous choice to pursue a union at the cost of her offspring. Guilt that she could not think of a future with Cyrus without imagining Viktor in his place.
The guilt hadn’t been so bad when she spoke to Elio, but that was a purely business arrangement. Speaking to Cyrus, Camille was aware that it waspersonal.He liked her. He might even have feelings for her.
It should have made things easier, perhaps bring her a measure of relief, but it didn’t. Instead, it just felt much, much worse.
ChapterFifteen
“Iknewyou were seeing someone!”
Viktor stabbed his fingers through his hair, pushing the wet, freshly washed strands back from his forehead like it might give him some illusion of style. “Benny, I swear to every god listening, I will throw you out of this den if you sayonemore word.”
His call with Camille was in fifteen minutes and he was trying, unsuccessfully, to get his second to leave him to stew in anxiety inpeace.
Benny leaned against the door jamb of the bathroom, a beer in hand, and grinned like the damn Cheshire Cat. A disgraceful look for a canine shifter, honestly.
“An elf, too,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t know you had a death wish.”
