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I narrow my eyes. He composes himself with difficulty.
“Durak,” he says, more softly. “Perhaps you meant that.”
“It would mean... fool.”
He nods.
“But, why on earth did you learn a word that is an insult?”
“There is nothing else I should be saying to you, Lord Presumption.”
“Lord Presumption?” He tries to stifle a laugh. “Really?”
“Be honest, Dorian, you know you are arrogant and presumptuous.”
He scoffs.
“There is plenty more you could say to me anyway, Viscount.”
“Like what?”
“Something like ‘my love’, or words of that sort.”
“My w-what?”
I feel the heat spread through my body.
What the hell is this idiot saying?
“My love, Lyubov’ moya. Try saying it, Dusha.”
I turn my face back toward the pillow. The flush burns my cheeks and I grip the sheet, more irritated with myself than with him. His fingers move through my still-damp hair, combing it back without hurry. He leans over me, a bead of sweat sliding from his temple and falling onto my collarbone.
The ceiling is not mine. Neither are the walls. The scent of linen, of polished wood, of his skin. Everything is wrong.
Dorian’s villa. His room. His bed.
The realization crashes over me all at once, without warning. My hands fly to my face almost violently.
“Dusha?”
My palms press against my eyes, as if I could erase what I have seen simply by ceasing to look. My head pulses. Something presses from within, rising, seeking an exit, but it stays there, trapped.
“Evander?”
His voice comes from above, more cautious than before. I feel his weight shift slightly. His fingers brush my hands to pull them away, I stop them instantly, seizing his wrists.
His body goes rigid.
“Forgive me,” he says quietly. “I did not mean to offend you.”
He tries again, more slowly. This time I do not rebuff him, I let him pull my hands from my face.
His breathing changes, the weight above me adjusts, then diminishes. His body withdraws with care, inch by inch. When he separates entirely, a shudder runs through me.
“Did I hurt you?”
I shake my head and let one hand fall to the mattress. The other remains near my chest. I turn my face aside, staring at the pillow, avoiding his gaze. I try to lock everything out, to close that fissure that opened too quickly. But the truth presses beneath the skin: it was different.
