“I wish that were true. I wish it were that simple,” he said.
His entire body was tense.
There was… something volatile—longing, maybe, or regret.
“You think I wasn’t affected by that kiss? Merde. It took everything in me not to touch you more. Not to let go. I wanted nothing more than to keep kissing you—to taste every inch of your skin… and then bury myself deep inside you.”
He leaned closer, not touching her, but invading every inch of her space. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, reverent and aching.
“Oui, you are très belle. But this is not all… I wish to make you mine, to hold in my hands something I have never had before. The light in you. The hope. There is in you a goodness that makes me believe—perhaps, Ambrosia—that I might be good again also.”
But he is good!
His breath was on her lips now, and though he hadn't laid a finger on her, her entire body felt scorched.
“I want you. I do,” he whispered again, like a vow.
Ambrosia’s heart pounded against her ribs. Her lips parted, but the words took a moment to form.
“Then… why?”
He ran a hand through his hair and sat back a few inches. “If things were different… but they are not. I cannot because… I am backed into a corner, and it wouldn’t be fair—to you. That’s all I can say.”
And again, he told her absolutely nothing.
He reached out to tilt her chin up, not allowing her to look at anything but him. “Do not doubt that I feel the same. This want.” He blinked, his eyes appearing brighter than usual. “For now, you are my princesse, non? Even if we will say goodbye soon?”
She nodded slowly, a lump forming in her throat. Yes, she thought. Even if it breaks my heart.
She wished he would do more than kiss her. Wished he’d share the secret that kept him from reaching for her fully. But she didn’t press. If he wanted to give her those truths, he would. And if he didn’t…
Then so be it.
The silence between them settled, tender but heavy.
And suddenly, Ambrosia became achingly aware of everything around her: the way the light flickered across his features through the carriage window; the dust motes floating between them like suspended breath; the warm scent of him—soap and spice and wind. Mr. Dog gave a soft sigh at her feet, and beneath them, the wheels rumbled over the road.
Every detail stamped itself into her memory.
She would never forget this. This man. This moment.
Because something inside her knew she would never meet another like him again.
But she didn’t say any of that.
She gave him a half smile instead.
When he reached for her, pulling her into his arms, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. This was where she belonged. She didn’t understand what awaited him in London, but she was no longer angry with him. Whatever it was, he had no control over it.
She placed her hands atop his, and he moved so that their fingers entwined. He seemed to need this comfort as much as she did.
Neither of them said much of anything for the next few hours. This silence wasn’t filled with tension, however; it seemed he’d released all of that for both of them. This silence was peaceful, almost, in an odd sort of way.
Nothing more could be said, really, to change anything, and yet there were no misunderstandings between them.
The crack came like a gunshot.
A sudden jolt—violent, unforgiving—pitched the carriage sideways.
