Chapter Forty-Six #2
Eliot seemed to take my hesitation as an opportunity.
He pushed closer to me, his palms upturned.
“I know what I did was wrong,” he said urgently.
“I know I made a mistake. I behaved like a child, selfishly and petulantly, and I was so—so furious with you, for wedding my friend.” He paused.
I watched the jagged bob of his throat, like a knife beneath his skin as he swallowed.
“You cannot comprehend the depths of my agony in the weeks following your betrothal,” Eliot went on.
“Every time I saw you after the Vainglory, it felt like I was dying. And you, by contrast, were always so cool, so composed. What was I meant to do? How many times did you think I could bow to you before it broke me?”
He shook his head.
“I thought, when I left you, that I could forget you,” Eliot said reverently.
“But you are seared into me like a scar. Time does not erase you—it only hardens your memory, sets it further into my flesh.” His expression changed, a shadow passing over it.
“And that dinner. Seeing the way he looked at you, like you were one of his indulgences, some pleasure to spend and then toss away without a thought…” His voice dropped lower, darkened.
“It has tortured me to the point of madness.”
I was quiet. I had never been frightened of him, and doubted that I ever would be—but there was something in his manner just then which gave me pause. A violence I had never witnessed before, like he had set aside his rule book and taken up a knife in its stead.
I wondered if I should have been compelled by it. This was all I’d wanted in the days after he’d left me—for him to come to me, regretful and on his knees, and beg for me back. And now he was here, cupped in the palm of my hand, and yet…
It seemed an eternity before I spoke again. “Where does Clio think you are right now?”
Eliot’s brow furrowed. “I told her I had business to attend to.”
Irritation sparked. “So you lied to her.” I took another step closer to him. “You play at being honorable. Is there any woman in your life whom you have not deceived?”
“Any woman whom…” Eliot’s features contorted. “What are you saying? Did you hear nothing of what I just confessed?”
“I have heard that you made a girl your fiancée, and then placed her beneath you,” I hissed. “The same as you did with Sybil during the Vainglory. The same as you did with me.”
“I would never think of you as beneath me.” Hurt flashed in Eliot’s expression, a mirror of that which I knew had unfurled in my own. “I never have. Accuse me of whatever else you like, but do not accuse me of that.”
Fine. I relented. “But neither do you think of me as a good person.”
“I…” Eliot’s voice cut out. It was more of an answer than any reply would have been.
“Say it,” I pressed, pushing nearer to him.
This time he did not move away to accommodate my advance, only stood still and let me come.
“Tell me you understand my decision to marry Noé. Tell me you believe me over Clio. Say that you do not think me ruthless, or disloyal—that you trust me with your life.”
“I love you,” Eliot shot back. We were standing quite close to one another now, almost chest to chest; I could feel the pain the admission caused him as surely as if it were my own. “I have loved you from the moment I laid eyes on you.”
So had I. I had loved him fiercely, because he had believed in me—because he’d accepted me when no others had, drawn me close to him and elevated me, helped me to see that I was more than my grudges and my strife.
And I despised him for all the same reasons.
Because he told me I was worth something, and then when it came time to pay, he cast me off without a care.
I shook my head. “It’s not the same.”
Eliot’s expression folded. “Is it because of him?” he murmured. Immediately, a chill walked down my spine. As if sensing my reaction, Eliot stiffened. “You promised me that you would not love him, Lovett.”
I flushed. “This conversation has nothing to do with him.”
His eyes narrowed. “Evading me,” he chided. “You forget how well I know you.” Tilting his head, he demanded with forced calm, “Give me your answer.”
“Eliot—”
But I was on my back foot, and he understood it as well as I did. “Answer me, Lovett,” Eliot interjected before I could finish. “Do you love him?”
“I keep my promises.” The reply burst from me before I could contain it. Quieting, I reined myself in. “I said I would not love him,” I finished through gritted teeth, “so I do not love him.”
I cast him a glare as I said it. Inside me, a stillness had arisen; though I was speaking to him, in truth I had passed into another place. My bedroom, a night ago, Wasting Season in front of me and Ophelia’s candle burning steadily at my side.
And all else in life, I have found rotten aside from these three seeds.
My heart broke. I felt like a traitor.
Still, at my admission, Eliot released a breath. “Then we can salvage this.” He reached for me. “Leave him, Lovett,” he whispered. “Leave him and be with me. I am begging you. Your wedding day—it will not be the celebration you think.”
His comment dug at me. I looked up. “Is that a threat?”
Eliot’s eyes were soft. “It is a plea.”
I held his gaze for a long moment. Then, my decision made, I drew my arm away. “If you call for me again, I will not answer,” I said, turning. “I will see you at the wedding, Eliot.”
The door latch undid itself when I twisted the knob. Same as I had on the day we’d met, I left without looking back.