Page 171 of Immortal Rose

How much more of this could he take? All those times he thought God had spared him out of mercy or for some greater purpose . . . it was just to keep him alive for this torment, wasn’t it?

He stroked a soothing hand along her back, feeling the shiver pass down her spine at that mere touch, drawing one from him; their bodies and their souls were still in conversation.

Hugh shut his eyes. “Shh . . . it’s not real, sweetheart . . .”

The pendant around his neck pulsed with the magic it had absorbed, a cruel echo of the desire that throbbed in him. He hadn’t realized she’d unknotted his cravat and opened his shirt until her lips found the skin at the base of his throat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to it.

He didn’t pull away, not even as her lips trailed up his neck in the sweetest of caresses. After all, Hugh had never claimed to be a paragon of morality, merely decent.

Slowly, the tension in her body relaxed along with her pulse. She sagged against him, turning her face against his ridiculous velvet jacket. Gently, he used his thumb to wipe away the smudges of her lip stain around her mouth, using his sleeve for his own face. As much as he enjoyed the thought of her marking him in some way, claiming ownership, it would remind her of this. Of what they had nearly done.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered after a long while, then squeezed her eyes shut. “No, I’m not.”

He laughed softly, resting his cheek against her soft hair as her arms came around his waist. She stiffened, as self-conscious as he knew she would be as the memory of the last few minutes washed over her, but Hugh only held her tighter.

It stunned him, the impulse. The need to feel as close to her emotionally as he was physically.

“I could die from want of you,” he whispered in her ear. “I would follow you, your devoted, worshipful servant, across lifetimes, the way the sun chases the moon across the sky. I would weave my soul through yours so no man or god could ever part them.”

Her fingers pressed against the muscles of his back, and he wanted nothing more than to be drawn into her. “Then why?”

“You know why,” he said.

She exhaled. “There’s . . . magic in the incense.”

“And it means neither of us is thinking clearly,” he said. “I swore to you I wouldn’t do this, and I’ve come close to it twice now. It’s unforgivable.”

Viola pulled away, her brow marred by anger. “Stop being so bloody honorable.”

Hugh would have answered, had he not suddenly become aware of a third presence in the room.

He spun Viola behind him, his gaze shooting to the far corner of the chamber, where a slim, pale figure reclined in a gaudy chair, his booted foot crossed over his knee. His brown hair fell straight over the shoulders of his crimson suit. He’d chosen a horned mask for himself, but his dark eyes were unmistakable.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Greystone said coldly. “You were just about to tell her all the reasons you’re a horrid cad, and how she deserves better than some rake who’d take liberties in her father’s place of business.”

Viola’s heart hammered against his. Hugh took quick inventory of the weapons on him. A small blade in his jacket pocket, another at his hip. But just then, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t die of mortification before the crime lord ever laid hands on him and that this wasn’t actual hell.

“A voyeur, are you?” Hugh said roughly. “Though, what’s one more vice to a list of a thousand, I suppose.”

“There’s nothing that happens in my club I’m unaware of,” he said. “Including an imposter using one of my invites and groping my daughter.”

Viola pushed away from him at that, whirling on the man. “And I’m certain you had nothing at all to do with that, or do all gaming hells use incense made by fairyborn?”

Greystone rose with the grace of a cat, removing his mask to reveal a younger face than Hugh might have expected. Only a scar over his left eye revealed the hazards he’d traversed on his rise to the heights of criminality. There was an unsettling lack of spark to his expression, as if everything inside him was still and shadowed.

Or dead.

“No, they do not,” he told her. “I purchased all that remained of the DeForests’ stock. I was told that it would lower one’s inhibitions, as you have demonstrated. It allows some men to play deep and others . . . to play in a different sort of way.”

Even Hugh felt daunted by the unusual coldness of Viola’s expression as she swept a single, dispassionate gaze over the man.

“Take off your mask,” Greystone ordered. “I want to have a look at you.”

Viola resisted, as Hugh knew she would. “That’s a privilege you’ve yet to earn.”

Greystone let out a low, throaty chuckle. “Had I known a masquerade was all it would take to bring you to me, I would have hosted one days ago.”

“We’re here on a matter of business,” she told him.