Jaded by Anya Bast

become a doctor and follow in my father’s footsteps, and met a woman named . . .” He trailed off, his face losing its charming half smile. “I met a woman. She was a history major.” He paused and storm clouds seemed to move into his eyes. “In order to get a foot in the door with her, I told her I was having trouble in my history class and needed tutoring. Then she did for me what you’re saying I’m doing for you—she made history come alive.”
    Lilya connected the dots. Perhaps this woman was the reason Byron had wanted her to come to his house for these three weeks. Did the mystery woman have some kind of hold over Alek that was crippling him emotionally? Perhaps holding on to history the way he did wasn’t just because he had a love for the subject, maybe it was his way of holding on to her.
    “I see.” She studied his face, which was completely shuttered, making her believe her theory might be correct. Clearly, he didn’t want to talk about her. That meant the woman was a painful subject and Lilya knew all about burying those.
    He piled the books, not looking into her eyes. “If you had continued on with your education, what path would you have chosen?”
    The question was like a sucker punch to her solar plexus. Her breath whooshed out of her and she lowered her eyes. No one had ever asked her that and it brought up memories long secreted away. “Art. I would have pursued . . . art.”
    It was amazing how much the loss still weighed on her. The room her father, Oren, had given her in their small home, the smell of the paint, and the feel of fresh paper under her hands. It had been hard for Oren to find money for the supplies, but he’d believed so much in her and had wanted to see her happy. It wasn’t the loss of the art itself that bothered her; the art was more a symbol of a time when she’d been safe and loved.
    Then fever had come to their home and taken it all away.
    “Art? The study of it or the actual—”
    “Painting.” She raised her eyes to him. “That’s what I loved most to do as a child. I feel certain that if I been allowed to finish my schooling, I would be an artist today. My father always said I had a natural aptitude for it. A gift. It’s been a long time since I put paint to canvas, however.”
    “Not much money in that.”
    “No, but some things mean more than money.”
    His eyes clouded for a moment. “Yes, you’re right. They do.”
    She studied him as he gathered books, papers, and pens. For the first time since she’d met him, he seemed unguarded and a little lost. Again she suspected the woman was the cause.
    After she’d finished her afternoon with Alek, avoiding the subject of magick and the mystery woman—it was too early to approach either of them—she headed up to her room. She hadn’t seen Byron since the morning and she was sad about that. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt sad at the absence of anyone, especially a man.
    Another testament to how different Byron was—no rules seemed to apply to him. Where he was concerned she was lost, whirling around in the air with nothing to hold on to. She couldn’t plan for him or control him. She definitely didn’t have the strength to deny him.
    Suddenly cold, she stared at the fireless hearth and hugged herself. The last time she’d had these types of feelings for a man, he’d beaten her and thrown her like a scrap to a bunch of men who’d literally tried to tear her limb from limb.
    Her rational mind knew that Byron would never do anything to hurt her. She trusted him. Yet what had happened to her still bruised the back of her mind, even if it was irrational. That emotional bruise linked deep caring for a man with her utter destruction. No matter how she tried to untangle that knot, it wouldn’t come free.
    Someone knocked on her door. She called for the person to enter and Byron walked in with an armful of kindling. Something light fluttered through her chest. Ah, the man who made such