“Another lie.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, and the longing in his eyes is so raw it hurts to see.
“You're fucking delusional.”
“Am I?” His thumb traces my cheekbone. “Then why is your pulse racing? Why are you leaning into my touch instead of pulling away? Why are you looking at me every time I look up?”
I don't respond. Maybe I'm broken. Maybe I'm tired of pretending. Because for the first time in my life, I feellike someone actually sees me and wants me anyway. And it scares the goddamn shite out of me.
“Let me go,” I whisper, but there's no conviction left.
“No.” He releases me anyway, then steps back. The loss of warmth makes me ache. “I'll give you space for now though.”
He doesn't say anything else.
He turns to the door, and panic flares in my chest.
“Where are you going?”
“Inside.” His eyes flick to my leg. “You wanted fresh air without me hovering. Don't overdo it, lass. You need to rest that ankle.”
“I didn't mean—I don't—” I stop myself. “Just don't. Don't leave.”
Something shifts in his expression. How can he look soft and hard all at once?
“I'm not leaving you, Bianca. Not ever.” He says it like a vow, and there's a glimpse of something like victory in his eyes. “I'll be inside if you need me.”
He disappears into the cabin. I'm alone on the porch with the forest and my spiraling thoughts.
This is wrong, I tell myself.He kidnapped you. He's obsessed with you. This isn't romance. It's a crime.
But my traitorous heart doesn't seem to care about the differenceanymore.
I stay outside until the sun shifts, until my skin prickles with goose bumps and my ankle throbs dully. When I finally go back inside, I find Ashland in the living room, reading.
It’s not just any book, of course.Le Morte d'Arthur.The one I've read so many times that the spine is cracked and the pages are soft.
“You read Arthurian legend?” I can't keep the surprise from my voice.
He looks up, and there's something almost shy in his expression. He shrugs. “Started to. I figured if you love it so much, there's gotta be something to this goddamn book.”
I bite back a smile. “What do you think?” I ask as I hobble over to the couch and sit, elevating my foot. I try to hide my wince, but he notices.
“I think Arthur's a goddamn fool for trusting Lancelot around his fucking wife.” He closes the book, keeping his place with one scarred finger. “But I guess I understand why he did. Sometimes, when you love someone, you can't see what's right in front of you.”
“Guinevere loved them both,” I say quietly, settling onto the other end of the couch. “That was the tragedy. She was torn between duty and desire.”
Why has it never hit me so hard as it does right now?
His eyes darken. “Which one won?”
“Neither,” I whisper. “Everyone lost in the end.”
“Cheerful stuff,” he quips, but there's a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“Maybe it's not about happy endings,” I say. I'm glad we have some kind of excuse to talk like this. I can talk about books. I can talk about Guinevere. I can talk about Arthur and Lancelot. But I can't talk about… me. Maybe that’s partly why I love books so much.
“It's about honor and sacrifice and impossible choices,” I finish. I tuck my feet under me and wince.
“Don't do that,” he says immediately. “Put it out in front of you.”
