Lucien broke the kiss, breathing hard. He pressed his forehead to hers, capturing her wrists, stopping her from reaching for him again. He wanted her to. He wanted to lose himself in this sweet oblivion, but there was more at stake than this.
"I would have kissed you," he whispered. "If you had not kissed me first. God help me, I've wanted to do that for days."
"Then don't stop." Somehow, Ianthe broke his hold, her hands cupping his face. Desperation limned her features. "Kiss me, Lucien. Kiss me like you mean it."
"I do mean it." He stole her mouth again, as if he couldn't help himself. Lightly, he traced Ianthe's mouth with his lips, as though she was far, far too precious, and then he forced himself to let her go. "But we need to talk." He could hear the regret in his own voice. "I'll make this up to you. Kisses for days. Weeks. Now tell me the truth..."
"The truth?" Dazed eyes met his; then they sharpened, as if Ianthe sensed the guillotine blade about to fall. All sense of desire vanished from her face.
Time to throw the dice. This needed to be said. "I know you took the Blade."
Panic. That was panic he recognized on her face. Ianthe staggered back, clutching at the table, the shimmer-shine of tears dancing along her lower lashes.
"I'm not going to hurt you," Lucien told her, holding his hands up. Trust me, damn you. "I'm not going to betray you to the Prime, but I need to know exactly what is going on."
"Oh, God." Pressing her hand to her mouth, Ianthe turned away, stumbling toward the mantle and holding on for dear life with her back to him. "How did you—?"
"How did I know?"
Ianthe nodded, but she wouldn't look at him.
"I began to suspect you were involved this morning," Lucien said, reaching for the brandy to steel his nerves. The first sip was a fiery release. "You've been upset, but somehow restrained, and you weren't rushing. Oh, you made movements toward trying to 'find' this thief, but then you were quite content to pay your dues to me at night, as if there was no hurry. You were waiting for something, and ever since the demon attack, I've been able to see people's emotions as colors that mottle their skin. I recognized the fear in you and the terror, but it was only this morning that I began to perceive the yellow-gray color as guilt. As soon as I saw it, I knew."
Say something, damn it.
Ianthe's shoulders slumped. "I need help," she whispered. "I never wanted to do this, to betray Drake, but I didn't have a choice."
Relief flooded through him. Lucien drained the brandy, then set it aside with a glassy thump. "Tell me," he prompted.
Wrapping her arms around her, she slowly turned. "It began a week ago. There was a note in my room—" Her gaze sharpened as she saw the empty glass, her pupils flaring. "Oh, no."
"Oh, no?" Heat spiraled through him, bringing with it a wave of lassitude. Lucien forced a blink. His eyelids were growing heavy.
Then there were hands capturing his wrists, holding him steady. "You drank the brandy!"
"Was I... not 'sposed to...?" Damn this buzzing in his head. Lucien staggered, and a warm weight curled into his arms, holding him up.
"No." Ianthe's face looked stricken. "I don't know! I was going to drug you, but then... Then you kissed me, and—"
Drug him? A flare of alarm went through him. Her face swam into focus. "Ianthe. What the hell did you give me?"
"A little concoction. It will make you sleep." A tear slid down her cheek. "I changed my mind... I wasn't going to..." Then she looked up, guilt written all over her face. "They want the blade. Tonight. I have to give them the blade!"
The world swam. They both staggered sideways, and Ianthe nearly fell atop him as his back hit the bed. "Jesus," he whispered. The room was spinning mightily now. Somehow he had a fist in her skirts though. "You cannot go."
He couldn't help her if he was like this. He couldn't help her, and from the splash of emotions painted all across her face, she was going to do something rash.
"I'm so sorry." Ianthe dashed away her tears with a lace-gloved hand, as though she was trying to hold herself together. "I didn't know if I could t-trust you."
"Don't cry." Lucien's head slumped back onto the bed.
"And I should have known. I should have trusted you."
There was one last question to ask, and from the crushing weight of the heaviness seeping through him, he wouldn't have long to say it. "The girl... Lou...isa. Is she mine?"
"What?" Ianthe's voice sharpened, and suddenly her face swam into view, serious and pale. "What did you say?"
The room was spinning. "Is she...my...daughter?"
