Page 80 of The False Vow

“You know you don’t need to wear that if you dislike it.” His attention dipped briefly to the caul tossed like a discarded fruit peel to the seat cushion, then rose to my face. “Not for me.”

A shiver moved down my spine at the rough quality of his speech. I waited for him to lower his arm, but his fingers continued to trace the lock of hair he held like a ribbon.

I swallowed. “Of course I need to,” I replied. “Pleasure or displeasure has no part in it. I must wear it for the same reason all silkwitches must—because society would reject us otherwise.”

It was an honest response, yet rather than accept it, Noé frowned. “I am society,” he said. “My father is society. Do you think that if others tried to exclude you, I would not step in to stifle their dissent?”

He shifted closer, knuckles curling against my ear.

“You are to be my wife, Tamerlane,” he murmured. “I would stand beside you until my last breath.”

I went still. There was a tenderness in the way he spoke my name that I did not like. His thumb moved over my temple, tracing a slow arc.

With as much steeliness as I could muster, I corrected him, “I am your victor. Not your wife. There’s a difference.”

Taking his wrist, I drew it away from my skull, lowering it back to his side.

“You owe me nothing but your part of the bargain we made, as I owe nothing to you.”

His brow creased. “You are more than my victor,” Noé countered. “Have you not yet realized that?” He shook his head, his expression earnest. “You could have come to me at the start of the Vainglory on your knees, clad in nothing but rags. You still would have won.”

My throat sealed over. I could not bear to meet his gaze—it was too honest, too full of realities I refused to confront. “Stop it,” I hissed. “You chose me because my Wit allowed you the best chance of defeating your father. Don’t mislead yourself.”

“I chose you because…” Noé’s voice broke. “I chose you…”

His features pulled. The silence felt dangerous; I couldn’t shake the impression that he was weighing it, debating whether or not to go on. I was no fool. I understood that in the time we’d been betrothed, some form of—I hated to call it—attraction, had grown between us, despite my best efforts. He was clever, and wickedly handsome, and had defended me where others had not. It was only natural that, forced into such constant, close proximity, my feelings of gratitude had begun to warp into…something else.

It was natural, and it meant nothing. If anything, the pull between us was like a fever. I needed only to cure the disease which fed it, and it would dissipate like dew on grass.

“Noé.” I laid a palm on his chest before he could continue, coaxing him back.

“Mmm?”

“This is unwise.” He only glanced down, studying my splayed fingers. Determined, I said more forcefully, “I will always be loyal to Eliot.”

He looked up. It was with complete steadiness that he replied, “All right.”

The answer did nothing to assuage my concerns. “You will never have what you want.”

“Fine.” He shrugged loosely. When his eyes flicked back to mine, they softened. “I would never force you into anything, Tamerlane,” he said. “You are your own creature.”

I had not yet removed my hand from his chest. His face was downturned to better study mine, my chin tilted up so that only a few inches separated us. I knew I should turn away, but instead I found myself asking, “What of Ophelia?”

At last, a reaction—he flinched. “You never knew Ophelia.”

“You loved her.” I said it like a reminder, but still, I did not move.

“Of course I did,” Noé replied. To my immense frustration, his mouth twisted in a pitying half smile. I’d hoped for anger, something to force the separation I seemed pathetically unable to initiate on my own. “Is that what you think love is?” he asked. “Some kind of eternal sentence? A whipping post to lash yourself to and receive beatings every time you stray from it?”

It was precisely what I thought, but I would never be the one to admit it. “I believe love is honest,” I hissed. “We do not like each other, Noé. Whatever compulsion you think you feel toward me is nothing but another form of rivalry—the desire to claim that which belongs to your former friend.”

His reply was hushed. “This has nothing to do with Eliot.”

“But it is still false.” Finally—finally—I dropped my hand. “It’s as you said the other night. You loathe me, and I loathe you. Soon, you shall remember that.” Calmer now that we were not touching, I swept my gaze over his figure. “If it is physical satisfaction you require, you are more than welcome to procure a mistress.”

He chuckled. “Please,” he said bitterly. “That would only make things worse. I would feel you every time I touched her.”

My cheeks blazed. “That is a purely ridiculous thing to say.”