“But she sent her brother after you,” said Max.
Michalas nodded, his eyes light with humor. “It was all the women, wasn’t it? Lilith, Caroline, Sara, Gwen . . . all stymied by our Victoria. ”
“You’re weary,” Wayren said, standing suddenly. Perhaps she sensed the undercurrents, perhaps she merely understood that Victoria was, indeed, exhausted. Heart-sick, worried, weary . . . yet hopeful. Ridiculously hopeful. “We can discuss this at another time. ”
No one argued with Wayren; Max was the first one out the door. He limped, moving a bit gingerly, but still graceful. And he was gone.
Sebastian stayed when Victoria closed her fingers around his wrist.
The door shut and they were alone.
He said nothing, just looked at her.
“I . . . Sebastian,” she began, but he raised a four-fingered hand . . . whether he used that one purposely or not, she didn’t know. It would be just like him to, as he put it, play up his heroism. She smiled. She did love him.
“No, don’t. Please. ” He gave her a crooked smile, one that still had the power to send a tingle to her belly . . . just not the right tingle. “My pride cannot handle it. ”
“How . . . did you know?”
He settled his golden hands on her shoulders, one finger stretching up to caress the side of her neck. “It’s been there for all to see . . . for whoever cared to look. I chose not to . . . and so has he. Victoria. ” His voice became urgent, his fingers tightened. “He’s not worthy of you. He hasn’t the ability to . . . feel. I don’t want you to be hurt. And yet—no. ” He shook his head sharply. His sensual lips firmed so that a humorless dimple appeared. “I can’t wish you well, or wish you to be with him. I simply cannot. He’s made it clear to me that—” He stopped, squeezed her shoulders, bent to kiss her.
It was a farewell kiss—she read that much in it. Or, at least, an au revoir kiss . . . rather than an adieu. An “I’ll wait for you” kiss, rather than a good-bye.
When she pulled away, he was breathing unsteadily, and so to be honest was she. Sebastian made her feel . . . yes, he did. He turned up the spark, he curled her insides, he made her soft and liquid . . . but it wasn’t enough.
And as he looked down at her, she saw the understanding in his face. And she knew that in this, as always, he’d be the gentleman.
Victoria knew where to find Max.
She knocked, but didn’t wait for his answer before she opened the door to the small bedchamber. The same room in which she’d awakened only this morning.
“What do you want?” His voice was sharp. Annoyed.
She’d surprised him. He was sitting in a chair, reading a book.
Reading a bloody book, the bastard.
The skin on his face and neck, and what little she could see under the loose shirt he wore, was scraped and raw. The bite marks from Lilith were no longer oozing, but the marks were there, angry purple-red ones, despite the salted holy water Wayren had poured on them. At least they would heal.
When he looked at her, his eyes were flat, devoid of emotion, even anger.
“Are you all right?”
That was the wrong thing to say; she realized it as soon as the words came out. His eyes went darker and his face became even stonier.
“You shouldn’t have gone there, Victoria. You should have bloody well stayed away and let things happen. ” He stood, anger rolling off him in waves. “You were nearly killed, you stupid, addled woman!”
She swallowed and her throat squeaked. “I told you I would come. I wasn’t about to leave you with her. ”
“I would have taken care of myself,” he thundered, slamming a hand down onto the table. A glass and carafe rattled against each other. “When will you learn to do what’s right for everyone—not just what you want to do? Blasted stubborn, infantile woman. You take risks for no bloody reason. ”
“You should speak,” she said, just as angry now. “You—”
“You’re Illa Gardella,” he shouted. “I’m no one!”
She’d never seen him angry like this . . . it was different from the cold, deep fury when she’d drugged him and locked him up. That was silent and deadly anger. This was . . . uncontrollable. Almost uncontrollable. And laced with desperation.
That was it . . . desperation. And . . . fear?