Chapter 19 #3
His lips grazed the velvet and the intimacy of the gesture nearly undid me.
Tears pricked my eyes as I pulled away, unable to bear the thought of his reaction if he were to discover what the ribbon concealed.
He released me without struggle, setting me on my feet, my injured ankle screaming in protest. I stepped back and smoothed my gown into some semblance of order.
The loss of his warmth left me shivering violently, the cold rushing in to fill the space where his body had been.
“I am sorry,” I said breathlessly, my hand coming up to cover the ribbon protectively. “I cannot—you cannot—”
The haze that had overwhelmed my mind cleared with his absence, and I realized with mortification what I had done as I looked down at my other hand. He followed my gaze as he adjusted his own clothing.
The vine hung between my fingers, tiny luminescent white blooms tangled around it. Evidence of my crime glowed softly in the darkness and haloed around me.
His expression was difficult to read in the mausoleum’s gloom. Concern, confusion, hurt, and something calculating moved across his face in quick succession, each one swallowed before I examined it fully.
He reached for the specimen, frowning as he unraveled it from my grip and shoved it back into his coat pocket.
The voice screamed with a raw fury that filled my skull with such volume I nearly staggered. Rage and frustration and desperate need all tangled together into a sound that felt like it would crack my skull open.
NO! Take it! I need it! TAKE IT! IT’S MINE!
I pressed my hands against my temples, trying to contain the pressure, to silence the shrieking that only I could hear. My breath came in short gasps, my vision blurring at the edges.
“Camellia.” His voice cut through the chaos, concern evident despite his careful control. “What is it?”
I shook my head, unsure whether I was offering him an answer or simply trying to clear the voice’s continued assault.
“We need to leave,” he said quietly. “You are soaked through and freezing. We must get you warm before—” Whatever he said was cut off by the voice’s continued rampage inside my head, battering against the confines of my mind with such violence I was barely able to form coherent thoughts.
Dr. Ambrose moved to the door, checking that the path was clear. The rain had lessened to a light drizzle, misting in the air around us.
He turned back to me. “Can you walk?”
My ankle throbbed with each heartbeat, swollen and useless, but I nodded, unable to speak.
He offered his arm, searching my face with concern. There was nothing in his expression that suggested we had made love moments ago… that I had used that passion to steal the vine from his pocket.
I took his arm, and we moved out of the crypt into the rain-washed cemetery. The sky had begun to lighten at the eastern horizon—dawn approaching, though the heavy clouds obscured most of the emerging light. We would reach the house before full daylight, before Agnes noticed our absence.
We walked in silence, heavy and burdened with things that could not be undone.
His attention remained fixed on our predicament.
He adjusted his grip when I stumbled, slowed our pace when my breathing grew too labored, and steered us around the deepest puddles to spare me additional discomfort.
His focus was entirely on getting me safely back to the house and ensuring I did not worsen my injury or succumb to the cold that had seeped into my bones.
If what had occurred troubled him, if my behavior had disturbed or disgusted him, he gave no indication. His manner was careful, solicitous even, but emptied of the heat that had consumed us both in the darkness.
The voice had finally quieted to a sullen presence at the back of my mind, no longer screaming but still radiating displeasure at my failure to take what it wanted.
I felt it watching through my eyes, noting the shape of his coat pocket where the cutting rested, calculating whether another opportunity might present itself.
We reached the house as gray dawn light began to filter through the clouds. He helped me inside, and we stood dripping in the entrance hall like guilty children caught in mischief.
“You need to change into dry clothes,” he said, not quite meeting my eyes. “And elevate that ankle. I will ask Agnes to tend to you.”
I said nothing, too afraid of what my little companion might force me to do next if I did not focus on calming it.
He finally looked at me then, and something in his eyes made my chest tighten—pain and longing and resignation all tangled together, visible for just a moment before he shuttered it away.
He hesitated, and I recognized the agony consuming him.
It was the same one consuming me. There was so much that needed to be said, so many questions demanding answers, but neither of us said any of it.
He turned and I thought he would walk away, but then he stopped, spun back, and stalked toward me. My breath caught as he lifted me into his arms, cradling me. He pressed his lips to my forehead and I allowed my body to relax into his warmth, resting my head against his chest.
He climbed the stairs slowly, as though he wished for the moment to never end.
And I allowed myself to savor it too.