Something hot flares inside me at the thought of an unknown woman coming to his room. I tug the tablecloth so hard, William loses his grip on his side.
A wicked grin spreads over his face. “Are you jealous, Weenie?”
“Of course I’m not jealous. Why would I be jealous?”
His chuckle tells me he’s not at all convinced. He tugs the cloth back toward his side until it’s even. “You have all the powerhere. You hold the free pass. You hold the ability to let me end our bet and keep me from straying to anyone else.”
I scoff, smoothing out the wrinkles over the tabletop with more force than necessary. “You’re the one who said you don’t want to play with me anymore.”
Silence falls between us until I dare to meet his eyes. His expression has my lungs tightening. It’s the same way he looked at me from across the elevator that night. “I want to play with you,” he says, voice low. “I want to play with every inch of you from now until sunrise, but I don’t want it to be a game.”
I grip the nearby chair to steady myself. “What do you mean by that?”
His throat bobs. “This isn’t a game for me.”
My heart rackets against my ribs. Does he mean…his feelings for me?
He shakes his head and smooths out the cloth on his end. “The contract,” he says as if reading my mind. “It’s not a game. I need it.”
My shoulders slump. Whether with relief or disappointment, I know not.
“Yet I have to play to win, right?” His tone is bitter, and his smoothing motions turn rough. With a heavy sigh, he plants his hands on the table, head hung low. “Ireallyneed this.”
I bite the inside of my cheek and retrieve a stack of plates from the cart. I approach his side of the table and hand him half the stack. “For Cassie?”
He doesn’t meet my eyes as he accepts the plates. “Yes, for Cassie.”
Guilt plagues me as I spread out the fine porcelain items. I’m fully aware that my desires stand in the way of those belonging to someone so special to him. He must know it isn’t personal. I have nothing against her. Or him. “She’s a charming girl. I like her.”
“Charming is a word,” he says with a huff of laughter. “She’s a troublemaker.”
“You care about her.”
“She calls it fussing.”
We finish setting out the plates and move on to utensils. I nibble my bottom lip before asking a question I know might be too invasive. “You mentioned before that Cassie is unwell. That you didn’t want her to get a job because of her constitution. Is it a chronic condition?”
He doesn’t answer at once, but when he speaks, his tone holds a serious quality. “She has a degenerative disease, one the medical community doesn’t quite understand. Her immunity is weak. She’s just like Lydia.”
“Is that your mother?”
“Cassie’s mother by blood. Mine by love. Our parents met when Cassie was still a baby. Lydia conceived her with a costar from one of the plays she acted in, but he wasn’t interested in compromising his career to raise a child.”
“She was an actress?”
He nods. “That’s how she met my father. He was obsessed with the arts. And women. I thought he’d stay with Lydia. Well, I suppose their relationship held a record for him by the time he left.”
I note the way his tone darkens when he talks about his father. The way he clasps the spoons in his hand a little tighter.
“I wouldn’t wish my father on anyone,” he says under his breath, “but if Cassie shared his blood, she’d have some fae healing.”
The pain in his voice has my heart softening. Cracking. Flooding with warmth and hurt and sympathy. Before I can think better of it, I round the table until I’m at his side. He won’t meet my gaze as he continues to set out flatware, so I lay a hand on his arm, stilling him.
My brows knit as I look up at him. “You’rereallyworried about her. It’s more than just fussing, as she calls it, isn’t it?”
He meets my eyes and his expression is so broken, so open and vulnerable, my throat constricts.
I swallow the tightness as more and more understanding falls into place. “Did Lydia…did she die from the conditions she shares with Cassie?”
