Page 166 of House of Lilith

But it’s so soft and warm, the look he’s throwing me, and I find myself unable to refuse. “Sure,” I say as I get up.

And we walk through the French door and into the garden, the night air fragrant and the towering cypresses barely visible against the rich midnight-blue sky.

We start down the gravel path leading through two rows of blooming hyacinths and straight for the fountain.

For a couple of minutes, we just keep walking in silence, his elbow grazing mine every once in a while, making me remember other little walks like this. Walks we used to take when we first started dating. And it makes me long for that simplicity — the touch, the silence, the night sky above us.

Then he stops, snaps a flower off a hyacinth bush and holds it out for me with a smile. “A flower for the lady.”

And I’ve no idea why, but it makes me cringe, what he says and the way he says it, snapping me out of longing for the old days.

I take the flower and I keep walking, scrambling to find something to grab on to as he falls into step with me. And of course, it being top of mind, what I find is the topic of the mysterious Archon and the even more mysterious events of the Fourth Game, of which the Academy doesn’t seem to want to breathe a word.

“What was it that the Pied Piper tasked you with that day?” I ask.

He glances at me.

“Oh, that’s both inconsequential and long forgotten,” he replies matter-of-factly, making me have to stop myself from letting out a frustrated sigh.

And we keep walking, and the closer we draw to the fountain, the more the sound of water ripples through the balmy night air, creating a soothing, magical atmosphere. But the more I’m aware of it, the more I feel this painful longing, the more painful for being futile.

Then, just as we get to the fountain, Max stops and turns to face me, making me stop as well. “Now, cupcake, I want to be honest with you,” he says, sweetly, as he catches my eye. “I’m not here to celebrate your brother’s birthday.”

“Really?”

“No need to be snarky, Anastasya,” he snaps a little, but quickly collects himself. “I’m trying to apologize.”

It’s enough to make me feel bad. “Go ahead then.”

He clears his throat. “When you broke off our engagement,” he starts, his voice growing soft again, but apologetic as well, “I won’t lie, I spent a few months wanting to hurt you for what you did.”

It renders me speechless, what he says. It’s not what I’d expect.

He just looks at me for a second, warmly. “Then I realized… The only reason I felt that way was my love for you.” He presses his lips tight. “And, well, it was the incident before the Fourth Game that helped open my eyes.”

And all of a sudden, there’s this flood of images pouring into my brain, those I keep shut out at all costs, of a certain someone’s back as he refuses to let me close the distance, of the pissed-off look on his face as he tells me what he really thinks of me. But what hurts the most is the image of him looking at me with a smile on his face.

I make myself snap out of it and turn my focus back onto Max, but when I finally speak, the words are rushed and breathless. “Get to the point, please.”

“The point is,” he starts, gently, “someone else would’ve crossed you off that same second.”

I have to fight the urge to shake my head in an attempt not to let the words cause another flood of images.

“The majority would,” he keeps going, more fervently by the second. And now he’s taking my hand in his, trying to catch my eye again as I struggle to keep my focus on him. “ButIdidn’t. I think I’ve shown I’m a good man, Anastasya, a good man who loves you from the bottom of his heart, despite everything.”

I lock eyes with him, my eyebrows pulling down. Because, all of a sudden, I’m realizing where this little speech is headed.

“Look, Max,” I force myself to start, wanting to beat him to it, “you really have only been good to me, but I—”

“Exactly,” he cuts in with determination in his voice. “I’ve only been good to you, and it’s obvious, cupcake, that you’re not well.”

The remark makes blood rush to my face, but it’s warm, the way he says it, and I don’t think I have any right to hold it against him, at least not after everything that’s happened.

So I just shake my head. “Please, let’s not get into it.”

“We don’t have to,” he urges, tightening his grip on my wrist. “Whatever you’re going through, it’ll pass,” he says.

And it’s in a near whisper that he does, but with such determination in his voice that I find myself staring into his eyes, burning with the need for it to be true, what he’s telling me.

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