“Get out.”
It was not the first time Theodore Winter had ordered her from his chamber; different room, different day. But Evie was not heeding him this time. She had before, and she had almost lost him. She was not about to lose him now.
“No.”
His lip curled. “I don’t want you here.”
“Nevertheless, I am here. Remaining.” She held the cup to his lips. “More water?”
He lifted his right hand and swatted the cup away, spilling its contents all over his counterpane and sloshing on her bodice in the process. It was terribly childish of him. And part of her she dared not reveal—the part of her that loved him desperately and had been terrified he would die all whilst she had been getting scarcely any rest—longed to cry. To run from the chamber and hide from his wrath.
But she reminded herself he was only trying to do what was best. The Theo Winter she had come to know was not a beast but a man. A good, kind man. A handsome, wonderful man. The man she loved.
“You have spilled the water all over your bedclothes,” she observed calmly. “All you needed to do was say you were not thirsty, Theo. No need for theatrics.”
“Devil,” he gritted.
“You shall always be Theo to me,” she told him pointedly, holding his gaze and daring him to defy her. To offer argument.
“Go,” he ordered her again.
“As we have already established, I am not leaving.” And damn him for waking from days of fever—for being at the edge of life and death—and then demanding she remove herself from his presence the instant he was awake. Part of her longed to box his ears. But another part of her longed to kiss him. She was so relieved he was awake and himself.
Surely this meant he was going to survive this.
“You do not belong here.”
“I belong wherever you are.” The impassioned words fled her before she could think better of them.
She had revealed too much. Made herself far too vulnerable.
He stared, his jaw rigid. “You don’t belong with me, milady. I’m too stupid, an East End bastard born of a whore. Can’t even read.”
She flinched at his description of himself, but forged onward, needing him to see the difference. To see himself for the man he was instead of as the worthless boy his mother had taught him to believe he was. “Of course you can read. You have been making great progress, and you are not stupid at all, Theo. Your brain sees the letters in a different order at times, and I believe that is what has caused you difficulty in the past.”
He sneered. “Made you come and it’s fogged your mind.”
His crude words made her flush. “Do not make a mockery of yourself or what we shared, I beg you.”
He stared at her, and she had to once more stifle the urge to weep. This was a different sort of misery altogether. “I’ve a lame arm.”
Her gaze flicked to his wounded arm. She had seen him move it in the depths of his fevers, so she knew it was possible. Not to mention what the surgeon had told Dom. “Your brother said the surgeon was confident you should not lose any movement. The ball passed through, avoiding muscle and bone.”
“Don’t give a goddamn what the leech said. I know how my arm feels. Dead.” As if to punctuate his words, he attempted to move the arm in question and then stopped, inhaling sharply, his expression clouding with pain.
“Stop, Theo,” she said. “You will injure yourself further.”
“Who bloody well cares?”
“I do!” She pressed a shaking hand over her heart, trying not to allow him to see how badly she was trembling just now. “I care, Theo.”
But he remained impervious. “Go, milady. You aren’t wanted or needed here.”
He was breaking her heart, but she refused to allow him to see it. “You risked your life to see me safe. The least I can do is show you my appreciation.”
“Don’t want gratitude or pity from you.”
Anger rose within her swiftly, usurping the pain for a heartbeat. “Then what is it you want from me?”
