That one had landed, because it was true, and Veil had enough self-awareness to know it. He was being proud. Evianne was avoiding him, and instead of confronting it or even simply ignoring it, he was matching her distance with his own, turning it into a silent contest of who could care less.
Childish, indeed.
But what was the alternative? Pursue her? Corner her in a hallway and demand to know why she’d gone cold after the workshop? He’d seen the way she’d looked at him when he stood behind her, felt her breath catch, felt the tremor in her hand. The attraction was mutual. That much he was certain of.
But she was running from it.
And Veil had been chased by enough women to know that pursuing someone who didn’t want to be caught was a game he refused to play.
So he’d let her avoid him.
He’d let the distance grow.
And he’d told himself, repeatedly, that it didn’t bother him.
Until the ice cracked.
One moment he was making polite conversation with Lady Chesterton about her foundation’s interest in vintage stationery.
The next moment he was watching Evianne sprint across the ice toward the hole where a child had just fallen through.
No.
The word ripped out of him, but she was already running, shedding her coat without breaking stride, and every rational thought in Veil’s head evaporated. Five days of carefully maintained distance collapsed in the space of a heartbeat, and he was running too, shoving past spectators, his heart slamming against his ribs.
She dove in.
She actually dove into water cold enough to stop a heart in minutes, and terror unlike anything Veil had felt since the night his father died crashed over him. Not the slow, creeping dread of watching a parent fade. This was instant. Total. The kind of fear that strips you to your foundations and leaves nothing but animal desperation.
He sprinted across the ice. Distantly aware of security shouting. Of his mother’s hands moving frantically in his peripheral vision. Of the crowd scattering in every direction.
But all he could see was the dark hole in the ice where Evianne had disappeared.
She surfaced.
Shoving the boy up.
Veil grabbed the child, hauling him onto solid ice, passing him to the security team. The boy was coughing, crying, alive, and Veil barely registered any of it because he was already turning back to the water.
Evianne was sinking.
Eyes closed. Body limp. Slipping beneath the surface like the water was pulling her down.
He dove in.
The cold was vicious, instant, a thousand needles driving into every inch of skin, but Veil barely felt it. He grabbed her, wrapped his arms around her chest, and kicked hard for the surface, his muscles burning, his lungs screaming, every second stretching into something eternal.
He broke through. Gasping. Dragging her to the edge where hands helped pull them both out onto solid ice.
“BREATHE, damn you, BREATHE—”
Her lips were blue. Her skin was white. Her eyes were closed, and she wasn’t responding. Veil knew the signs because his father had made him learn water safety, made him take the courses, made him promise.
He scooped her into his arms and ran.
The medical facility was close. He covered the distance without thought, kicking open the doors, shouting for help, and then the medical team took over. Dr. Faulke barking orders. Nurses with heated blankets and warm IV fluids and monitoring equipment. Everything moving fast, efficient, practiced.
Someone tried to pull him back.
