She was one of them. Even if she didn’t look like it.
“So, what now?” Drake asked.
Maxen didn’t answer.
He didn’t know.
He hated lies. Deception. And he didn’t want to believe her capable of either. But promises were only as good as the people who made them, so he couldn’t rule out betrayal. He only hoped to God he was wrong. Heneededto be wrong.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Fie. Fie. Fie.
Only a few hours had passed but already Calliope wanted to abandon the shop and hurry back to the tavern. That, however, wouldn’t do. So she changed into her plainest dress and scrubbed at the shelf in brisk circles. First the shelves. Then she could entertain thoughts of Maxen Fury.
Hah. An impossible feat, that.
Cleaning was always accompanied by thinking. And all her thoughts circled back to him. His bed. His heat upon her skin. Her lips still swollen from those persistent kisses. Marked. Thoroughly claimed.
And the promise.
Oh, thepromise!
Had that been wise?
At the time, it had seemed simple enough. She wasn’t planning on leaving Brighton. She might have entertained the thought after she’d met him and the first time she’d slipped away, but not anymore. However, what if the choice was stripped from her? What if Duvessa found her?
Should her stepmother even still matter at this point?
A grin stretched her lips. Last night, she’d been thoroughly ruined. She would be of no more use to Duvessa.
That’s right!
She was of no more use. How absolutely freeing. Still, a pinch of guilt entered her heart. Should she tell Maxen her true identity? Would he cast her aside if she did? Was there anything to cast aside? She’d like to believe there wasn’t, but her landlord-man was different.
He saw the world differently.
What if, when her lease ended in six months, he refused to renew?
Urgh!
She pressed harder at the shelf, scrubbing as if she could rub away the discomfort in herself. She didn’t believe Maxen to be that way, but apparently he loathed the aristocracy. Enough to regard her with contempt if he discovered she was born into the very world he despised? She couldn’t say. She could only hopenot.
She was still at a loss as to how to broach this.
He deserved the truth. The promise she had made—was it not already broken, keeping this part of herself hidden? Well, if she were being philosophical and all that.
She paused mid-scrub, the look on his face that morning flashing across her mind.Past, future, everything except every moment with you.
Her throat thickened.
She wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe he could see her, not the origin of her name. That he might understand the years she had spent surviving, enduring, hiding. But to confess was to risk everything. Her freedom. Her heart. Him.
“Stars, help me,” she whispered, leaning her forehead briefly against the shelf. She straightened almost just as fast, smoothing her skirts. Not today. Not yet. She needed one more hour, one more day of this happiness before facing whatever the truth might bring.
Tomorrow perhaps she would tell him. Tomorrow she would be brave.
Or perhaps the day after that.
