Her stomach fell, just as clouds slid over the sun. "Louisa?"
A nearby shrub rustled, but there was no sign of the little girl. Ianthe hurried into the garden as the secret little glade darkened with shadow. "Louisa, where are you?"
That was when she glanced at the picnic rug again. The teacups were all knocked over and the rug had draped itself over a forlorn teddy bear, as if something had been dragged kicking and screaming away from it.
Ianthe's heart leaped into her throat. "Louisa?" she yelled, grabbing hold of her skirts and hurrying forward.
How had this happened? How had she lost her daughter in but the blink of an eye? Where was Louisa? What would Elsa say? She should never have come here. Elsa would have protected Louisa; Elsa wouldn't have lost her. What kind of mother could she call herself?
"Louisa!"
Please, no. Not my child.
"Miss Martin." Strong hands cupped her forearms, and Ianthe fought them for a moment, until warm breath kissed her face. "Ianthe," Lucien said, his voice low and gentle. "Ianthe, wake up."
Ianthe woke with a gasp, into a warm, dark room masked with golden candlelight. Her heartbeat thundered through her veins and that lingering sense of loss was almost unquenchable. Lucien knelt on the bed over her, his expression stern and searching, his knees straddling her and pressing the blankets down tightly over her legs. He wore a burgundy robe that he'd evidently thrown on in a hurry, and one heavily muscled thigh speared out from beneath it, covered in dark hair.
"You were having a bad dream," he said, his fingers curling around her upper arms, as if he was afraid she'd vanish if he let her go.
The memory washed over her. Only, it was but a bad dream. This, her waking life, was the true nightmare, and no matter how she tried, it seemed she couldn't escape it.
She must have made some kind of choked noise, a tear sliding wetly down her cheek. Ianthe didn't even know if it was she who reached for him first, or the other way around, but she found herself in his arms, her wet face pressed against the soft wool of his robe, and his arms curling around her. Strong hands cupped the back of her head as he held her there, rocking gently.
"It's all right. You're safe now. You're awake."
Ianthe sobbed harder. Safe?
She clung to him, her chest heaving with the effort involved in containing her tears. Those hands slid slowly down her spine, then back up, and he made shushing noises. It felt nice to be held. Nice to know that someone else might be able to hold all of her broken pieces together.
But then reality began to intrude. That was only another wistful thought, was it not? She'd thought something important had changed between them in that moment in the library, but then Lucien had left her here alone, in her own bed, gently shutting the door in her face as he turned to seek his own. She didn't know what to make of it. He confused her.
Ianthe pushed away, wiping at her cheeks. Her entire face felt like a storm of bees had attacked it; hot, flushed, and swollen. She was a mess, and she couldn't afford to be. Louisa needed a mother, but the sad truth was that all she had was Ianthe herself.
It would have to be enough.
"Was I c-crying out?"
Those heavy lashes had half shuttered over his golden eyes. "Are you all right?"
"Of course. Just a nightmare—"
Lucien cupped her chin in his hands and tilted her face toward his, as though searching for the truth in her words. "I felt your fear through the bond. Fear and anger and a loss so profound it tore me from my own dreams. Something frightened you. Something—"
"No, I'm fine." That was panic now, locking hard claws through her belly.
The intimacy of the moment had her off balance. It was worse than being naked before him, for that was only skin. She could feel their tentative bond, feel him sorting through the emotions that travelled along it and echoed within him. Just as she could feel the ache of his curiosity and the stern, somewhat gentle worry inside him. Their bond was strengthening. It was both comforting and a concern, for what if he became so finely attuned to her moods that she betrayed herself and her secrets?
"Is there anything I can do?"
"Yes. Fuck me," Ianthe whispered, leaning forward and brushing her mouth against his jaw. Stubble rasped against her lips, and his thumbs were a question mark in the indentation of her chin before his grip weakened. Hold me. Make me forget. Closing her eyes, she licked at his throat, her own hands tearing free and sliding up within his robe, feeling the smooth silk of his skin.
And then something wet-slick brushed beneath her fingers… rough scars along his chest.
Ianthe looked down in surprise, but Lucien's face had hardened, and he caught her wrists again, so she couldn't touch him. Dragging his robe shut with his other hand, he took each wrist in hand, controlling her as easily as one did a marionette.
"As you wish," he murmured, pressing her back down onto the mattress in a tumble of sprawled limbs. He held her wrists pinned above her head, and she knew it was so that she wouldn't be able to touch him again.
"What happened to your chest?" He'd never once stripped himself naked before her, even as they... made love.
