“It isn’t pity. I just feel responsible. I ruined your life—no wonder you wanted to ruin mine.”
But I don’t want to ruin her life, not really. Far from it. I want her to fill mine, to make all this damn work and suffering mean something. I want what I lost and thought I could never have again.
But not until I know she wants it too.
Because I may have Geneveive Ashcroft’s heart, but that means little if she’s not willing to let me take it.
34
Genevieve
“Gen, are you sure?” Kieran asks against my skin, his lips pressing tentative kisses along the crook of my neck. We left the ballroom together as soon as we finished dancing, my desire to be with him—and him alone—filling me with reckless abandon. I don’t care if the entire court knows I’ve chosen to spend my birthday with Kieran Greenbluff.
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, Kieran,” I reply, my thighs falling wider as Kieran’s hips meet mine.
His breath releases in a raspy exhale. “Promise me you’ll be mine forever. I can’t—I can’t have you if I know someone else will claim you.”
“I promise, Kieran. I’ll always be yours.”
My words are punctuated by the roll of my hips, a sharp cry as our shared promises fuse with ourbodies.
I wake to a groaning cry in the night. Listening closely, I know it must be coming from down the hall in Kieran’s rooms. No one else occupies this floor of Huntley House, but I’m apprehensive about leaving my bed. He clearly wanted privacy, refusing to let me share his room. Then comes a louder cry, the sound of pain—or panic—followed by a sharp crash, glass shattering into tiny fragments.
I can’t lie here, listening to him suffer. He could be injured and in need of help. I slip on my robe and slippers, provided by Mrs. Andrews, and pad down the hallway toward the sound.
A muffled moan fills the air as I push open the unlocked door. The room is large and sparsely furnished, making it feel all the bigger. I see a figure on the floor, rolling and groaning.
“Kieran?” I whisper as he shakes violently. His shirt is off, and he’s writhing in agony across broken porcelain.
“No, Kieran! Let me help you!” I rush to the gas lamp, lighting it quickly before moving toward him to assess his injuries. What I see makes me suck in a sharp breath: blue blood splatters his chest. It cannot be possible. Kieran isn’t a blueblood. He’s always been a redblood. I think back to all his skinned knees and fencing injuries from our childhood—always,his blood flowed crimson.
He thrashes against what appears to be a broken pitcher, embedding the shards deeper into his chest, his arms, his back. It’s everywhere, indigo streaks slashed across his bare skin.
“Kieran!” I cry, shaking him gently, but he doesn’t respond. He moans some incoherent words, and all I can make out is my name.
“Yes, it’s me. It’s Gen. I’m here, Kieran—you’re safe.”
Slowly, his eyes open, but he lets out an anguished cry. “I’ll take care of you,” I murmur. “Come now—there’s a broken pitcher, and you’ve managed to injure yourself.” I pull him up to a seated position, guiding him forward and away from the fragments. He’s disoriented, and I’m not sure if he recognizes me, but I continue speaking softly as he groans in pain.
I go to the basin on his bureau, pour water into the bowl, and wet a cloth. Then I kneel beside him and begin to clean his wounds, extracting the shards of porcelain as gently as I can. He growls, but remains still, his head hanging low.
“I’m here, Kieran. It’s going to be alright,” I reassure him. After painstaking minutes of removing fragments and wiping away blue streams of blood, I finally exhale, realizing I’ve done all I can.
“Come, let me help you into bed,” I insist. He moves without speaking, allowing me to tuck him beneath the covers. His low moans fill the room as I turn the light down and slip off my robe. Climbing in beside him, I feel the tension in his body—his muscles seizing and straining even in rest. I begin to rub the tightness from his arms, then his chest, until he finally relaxes into sleep.
I wrap my arms around him and whisper his own words back to him: “I’m not leaving you.”
He’s kept this secret from me, and I can’t help but wonder why. If he’s a blueblood, how could Mother refuse our match? And why wouldn’t he have come back to tell me that somehow, impossibly, he’s become one?
Morning light streams into the room, and I hear a quiet shuffling sound. A maid is here, cleaning up the broken glass and bloodied toweling. I cringe, wondering what she must think of this gruesome scene. I pretend to be asleep as she hums to herself, apparently unfazed by the blood—or by the princess in Kieran’s bed.
Finally, I hear the click of the door. I turn to Kieran. His face is smooth and relaxed in sleep. Across his chest and arms are little blue nicks from his injuries last night. He looks like a fallen angel, and I allow myself a few moments more of this peaceful unreality, curling closer to him.
He rolls onto his side, pulling me into a tight embrace, his rhythmic breathing warming my exposed neck in a way that feels both comforting and foreign. I’ve never slept like this with anyone—not even Kieran—and it feels forbidden, like I don’t deserve this sort of comfort. I close my eyes again, allowing myself this one small indulgence before I face the truth of why Kieran has kept such a life-altering secret from me.
When I wake again, it’s to Kieran releasing his hold and stretching his taut body. “You’re actually here?” he asks. “I thought it was a dream.”
I roll over, meeting his green eyes, and stroke the scruff of his unshaven face. “Not a dream, actually. I woke to find you injured and helped clean you up. You didn’t seem quite cognizant, and I stayed to try to soothe you. Eventually, you rested without crying out.”
