he could keep his balance. When he’d beat back the storms as best he could. “One I know all too well. One who would marry a man like Niccolo Falco and defend that choice, call it romantic.”
She looked away from him then. In shame? In some kind of triumph that he cared this much, so much more than he should, than he even admitted to himself?
How could he still not know?
“But the other, Elena.” He dropped his voice, and saw her eyes close against it, as if it tempted her beyond endurance, or hurt her. As if he did. “The other …”
Was the woman he’d imagined she was when he’d met her. The woman he’d wanted so desperately he’d ignored her association with Niccolo to dance with her, to hold her. The woman he’d called his before he knew her name. The woman he sometimes saw in her still—like now….
That woman doesn’t exist
, he reminded himself harshly. She hadn’t then and she never would.
“People are complicated,” she said after a moment, a bleakness making her blue gaze gray when she lookedat him again. “You can’t shove them into little boxes. And you can’t really know them unless they let you.”
“Or they show you,” he agreed. “As you have.”
She swallowed, and then her head bowed forward, only slightly, but Alessandro saw it. He knew defeat when it stood before him. That should mean he’d won, that he was victorious in this—whatever this was. It should mean he felt triumph at the very least. And instead what he felt was empty.
“The show’s over, Alessandro,” she whispered, and he couldn’t make sense of what he saw on her face then.
Perhaps because he couldn’t, he didn’t stop her when she turned and walked away from him, again, leaving him there alone in the quiet room, the echoes of the passion they’d shared seeming to cling to the walls like rich, wild tapestries.
And still he tried to work out what he’d seen on her elegant features before she’d left. Temper, certainly. The lingering trace of that powerful desire that, it seemed, never truly left either one of them. A kind of weary resignation.
And sadness.
It was like a punch to the gut.
Elena was sad. And he’d made her that way.
She had looked at him like he was a monster. Worse, as if she knew he’d chosen to become exactly that. Asif she knew he’d vowed he would never become this kind of man—a man of cruelty and dark impulse like his father—no matter the provocation, and then had gone ahead and done it, anyway.
As if she knew
.
He wasn’t sure he could live with it. He wasn’t sure he could bear being this much of a disappointment to himself, this much of a bastard.
But he didn’t know how to stop.
CHAPTER SIX
“I WANT YOU in my bed,” he said curtly later that same night, appearing in the doorway of her bedchamber.
Elena was curled up in the blue-and-white armchair near one of the sweeping, open windows, staring out at the dark sea and the silver pathway that rippled there, stretching toward the swollen orange moon hanging low on the horizon. She’d been thinking about resistance. About surrender.
About how to use this uncontrollable passion for her own ends before it swallowed her whole.
“I knew I meant to lock that door,” she murmured, dropping her mask into place as she turned to look at him.
“Tonight,” Alessandro told her in that same clipped, commanding tone, the slight narrowing of his fierce eyes the only indication he’d heard her. “And for good.This particular game is over and I think we both know you lost.”
He’d showered. She could smell the faint scent of his soap, fresh and clean. His thick hair lay in damp waves on his head, and he no longer looked the way he had when she’d left him in the dining room. Bereft, she might have said, if he were a smaller creature, a lesser man.
He expected her to resist him. Still. Again. Elena could see it in the way he held himself, the fine lines of his powerful body taut. She could see it in the way
She looked away from him then. In shame? In some kind of triumph that he cared this much, so much more than he should, than he even admitted to himself?
How could he still not know?
“But the other, Elena.” He dropped his voice, and saw her eyes close against it, as if it tempted her beyond endurance, or hurt her. As if he did. “The other …”
Was the woman he’d imagined she was when he’d met her. The woman he’d wanted so desperately he’d ignored her association with Niccolo to dance with her, to hold her. The woman he’d called his before he knew her name. The woman he sometimes saw in her still—like now….
That woman doesn’t exist
, he reminded himself harshly. She hadn’t then and she never would.
“People are complicated,” she said after a moment, a bleakness making her blue gaze gray when she lookedat him again. “You can’t shove them into little boxes. And you can’t really know them unless they let you.”
“Or they show you,” he agreed. “As you have.”
She swallowed, and then her head bowed forward, only slightly, but Alessandro saw it. He knew defeat when it stood before him. That should mean he’d won, that he was victorious in this—whatever this was. It should mean he felt triumph at the very least. And instead what he felt was empty.
“The show’s over, Alessandro,” she whispered, and he couldn’t make sense of what he saw on her face then.
Perhaps because he couldn’t, he didn’t stop her when she turned and walked away from him, again, leaving him there alone in the quiet room, the echoes of the passion they’d shared seeming to cling to the walls like rich, wild tapestries.
And still he tried to work out what he’d seen on her elegant features before she’d left. Temper, certainly. The lingering trace of that powerful desire that, it seemed, never truly left either one of them. A kind of weary resignation.
And sadness.
It was like a punch to the gut.
Elena was sad. And he’d made her that way.
She had looked at him like he was a monster. Worse, as if she knew he’d chosen to become exactly that. Asif she knew he’d vowed he would never become this kind of man—a man of cruelty and dark impulse like his father—no matter the provocation, and then had gone ahead and done it, anyway.
As if she knew
.
He wasn’t sure he could live with it. He wasn’t sure he could bear being this much of a disappointment to himself, this much of a bastard.
But he didn’t know how to stop.
CHAPTER SIX
“I WANT YOU in my bed,” he said curtly later that same night, appearing in the doorway of her bedchamber.
Elena was curled up in the blue-and-white armchair near one of the sweeping, open windows, staring out at the dark sea and the silver pathway that rippled there, stretching toward the swollen orange moon hanging low on the horizon. She’d been thinking about resistance. About surrender.
About how to use this uncontrollable passion for her own ends before it swallowed her whole.
“I knew I meant to lock that door,” she murmured, dropping her mask into place as she turned to look at him.
“Tonight,” Alessandro told her in that same clipped, commanding tone, the slight narrowing of his fierce eyes the only indication he’d heard her. “And for good.This particular game is over and I think we both know you lost.”
He’d showered. She could smell the faint scent of his soap, fresh and clean. His thick hair lay in damp waves on his head, and he no longer looked the way he had when she’d left him in the dining room. Bereft, she might have said, if he were a smaller creature, a lesser man.
He expected her to resist him. Still. Again. Elena could see it in the way he held himself, the fine lines of his powerful body taut. She could see it in the way
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