Page 154 of When Hearts Surrender

“Perhaps in another life, we’ll go to Venice, and we can paint the canals together,” he whispers, his voice slurred. Delirious. “Hope is the dream of a waking man…and I-I’ll see you in your dreams…”

His eyes roll back and close, his grip on my hand slowly loosening. I hear the shrill cries of sirens in the distance; the thundering sounds of footsteps pounding on wet soil as lightning coils against the dark skies again, the storm rioting around us, wrapping us in a tearful embrace.

“Maxwell!” I scream and cry in his chest.

Not again, please.I huddle him close to me, rocking his limp body in my arms. If there is a God, please let him stay with me this time.

Please.

Chapter 57

“We’ve packed up therest of his things, Mrs. Anderson. The only item left is his art in the living room. Your housekeeper is en route with a carrying case for it.”

I nod to the tall brunette, one of the staff members for the private suites here in The Orchid, and she closes the door softly behind her.

My chest is heavy as I amble into the living room of the suite Maxwell was staying in after he moved out of the estate. The drapes are drawn shut and only a sliver of daylight shows through from the gap.

Tears prickle my eyes when I see his leather jacket on the couch—the same one I kept from that night at the race, and brought back to the mansion when I moved in. With trembling hands, I bring it up to my nose and take a sniff of his scent.

“Maxwell,” I whisper, burying my face into the jacket before clutching it to my chest.

I wish he were here with me, that he would wrap his arms around me and spin me around to the strains of Puccini’s arias. Then, I’d cook for him, knowing he’d make fun of me before nudging me out of the way to whip up something far more delicious than the meals at fancy restaurants, because he made it with love.

I’d gladly spend my days hiding away with him in the estate, painting, sketching, reading, and they’d be the happiest days of my life because he’d be there with me, and I’d get to be the luckiest woman alive to love him.

I have a feeling I’ve loved him for a long, long time, and will continue to love him for the years to come.

He’s been in a coma for the past week and the doctors don’t know if he’ll wake up. They said he not only suffered damage to his internal organs from the gunshot wound but also lost a lot of blood, and his brain was deprived of oxygen for too long when he coded in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

I wouldn’t have left his side if it weren’t for the staff here contacting me, asking me if I’d like to keep his things here or move them back to the estate. I wanted to see where he lived these last days before the incident, to breathe the air he breathed, to touch the surfaces his fingers grazed.

A sob lodges in my throat as I drape his jacket over my shoulders, needing to surround myself with him as my soul feels bereft and lonely, the empty chasm inside me glaringly apparent.

But I won’t give up on him. On us. Not when I’ve finally found him again.

My dreams have been a myriad of strange visions, echoes of what feel like memories that are so vivid, so true. I feel splintering heartache in my chest when I wake up. Some dreams are of Silas, the duke, his face brimming with joy, dimples flashing, as he twirls me around in the gardens at night before hauling me close and pressing kisses on my skin.

Kisses that felt like my Maxwell.

Other dreams are scattered memories from happier days when Maxwell was painting in his studio.

His brows furrowed as if displeased at his work, until his concentration broke and he looked up, seeing me staring at him. His grim face brightened, his brow cocking up arrogantly as he smirked.

The dimple on his cheek, identical to the one on his ancestor’s face, the one I’d seen in my dreams even though I’d never seen it rendered in any of the paintings in the house.

Maxwell would beckon me to him and pat on his lap. “Sit, little muse. Maybe all I need is some inspiration to get through this artistic block.”

He dipped his nose to my neck and sniffed and I giggled, the ticklish sensations sending heat to my core.

“Maxwell!” I swatted him away.

“Hmm?” He kissed a tender spot under my ear, his hand inching underneath my sweater before closing over my breast and tweaking the hard nipple. “Yes, little muse? I’m feeling rather inspired right now.”

“Maxwell,” I moaned, my head lulling to the side as he bit the tendered flesh of my neck before carrying me back to the bedroom, all work and art forgotten.

We were so happy. The clandestine moments in the Elysium, the whispered words of love and fleeting touches as we passed each other in the halls long before he said he loved me, because he later told me he didn’t want the curse to hear us.

Perhaps Morris was the villain who set everything in motion. Perhaps there was a more nefarious force behind his actions, the mysterious curse that had tortured this family for generations.

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