“And you think you are like him?”
“I do not think. I know.” He held her gaze, unflinching. “I have the same intensity, the same hunger. I simply learned to contain it.”
“Or deny it entirely.”
“Denial is a form of control.”
“Denial is a form of death,” she countered. She rose, moving toward him. “You’re so afraid of feeling that you’ve stopped living.”
“I live quite well—and have had this conversation before.”
She’d reached his chair now, standing close enough to see the pulse beating rapidly at his throat despite his controlled expression.
“What would you have me do?” he asked quietly.
“Stop counting days. Stop maintaining distance. Stop pretending this is merely a business arrangement.”
“And what is it instead?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I’d like to find out.”
He rose abruptly, bringing them nearly chest to chest. “You do not know what you are asking.”
“Then tell me,” she whispered. “Show me. Stop protecting me from something I might very well want.”
“Might?” His hand rose to cradle her cheek. “You don’t even know—”
“I know enough,” she breathed. “I know that when you touch me, I feel more alive than I ever have. I know that when you kiss me, everything else disappears. I know that these lockeddoors between us feel like punishment for sins neither of us has committed.”
“Celine—”
“I know,” she said, voice trembling, “that I lie awake at night wondering if you’re awake too. Wondering what would happen if those doors weren’t locked.”
His thumb traced her cheekbone, soft, reverent. “This is dangerous.”
“Everything worth doing is.”
For one suspended moment, she thought he would kiss her. His gaze dropped to her mouth; his hand tightened fractionally.
Then voices sounded in the hall—servants clearing the course—and the spell fractured. He stepped back, the armour of control snapping into place.
“We should retire,” he said stiffly. “Tomorrow will be long.”
“Of course. Wouldn’t wish to disturb the precious schedule.”
“Celine—”
“Goodnight, Elias.”
She left before he could answer.
Her suite was beautiful, but painfully empty. The connecting door stood like a taunt—locked, unyielding.
As she prepared for bed, she heard movement through the wall: footsteps, pacing, a chair dragged across the floor. Someone fighting the same battle she was.
Celine pressed her palm to the connecting door, wondering if he stood on the other side.
“Goodnight, Elias,” she whispered to the wood.
