Page 63 of The Traitor's Curse
Yes. He had. And I’d either been entirely unobservant in my turn, or I’d attributed it to some kind of malice.
When had Benedict ever done anything worse to me than tease me, needle me, flaunt his handsome face and his powerfulbody and his many lovers? If he’d meant his behavior to bother me, then that implied he wanted my attention. And if he hadn’t…well, that simply meant he’d had it, whether he wanted it or not.
“You need to eat something, Lucian,” Benedict said, so quietly that even our guards probably couldn’t hear. “And you need to sleep. I’ll leave you alone when we’re back at your rooms, I promise. Don’t pull away from me, though. I’m afraid you’ll slip.”
A perfectly healthy man of twenty-eight could probably be counted on to walk across a marble floor in very slightly damp shoes without mishap, and a few weeks ago, or even a day ago, I might have snapped at him to that effect.
It sounded very different to me tonight. Seeing someone you cared for in danger could make even a small threat loom large until the effects of the shock wore off.
Benedict had nearly been forced to watch Tavius murder me a few hours ago. Two weeks ago, he’d thought I’d missed being poisoned by the tiniest chance. And he’d spent the time in between constantly on his guard.
The danger had passed, but not in his mind. Not yet. He’d probably try not to allow me out of my rooms for a while, and I’d need to put my foot down. But not tonight.
I couldn’t answer him. A thousand questions and demands and speculations bubbled up in my chest, nearly irrepressible, and if I opened my mouth they’d all come spilling out.
By the time we reached my rooms, I was biting my lips to keep them in. I led the way into my sitting room and let go of his arm to walk over toward the fireplace, turning to face him once I heard him shut the door.
He stood next to it, frowning, his hand still on the knob. “I give you my word I’ll go as soon as I’ve made sure you—”
“You’re not going anywhere,” I said. And he wasn’t. Notuntil he told me the whole truth. My conclusion, the most logical conclusion, still felt so impossible after years of distance and what I’d assumed had been mutual dislike. I needed to hear him say it—or deny it. My heart pounded so violently I almost couldn’t speak. “You killed my father because he’d turned against me and wanted to make you his heir. But you could’ve simply left. Why did you kill him instead? You’re not leaving this room until you tell me why.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The doorknob rattled in Benedict’s hand, and his whole body went rigid with sudden tension.
I stared at him, holding my breath, trying to read his expression. But his tight jaw and hard eyes didn’t give much away.
“He would’ve killed you eventually,” he said. “I had no choice.”
My heart had been thudding before, and now it raced, making me breathless.
“There’s always a choice when it comes to murdering someone in cold blood, Benedict.” But I didn’t sound convincing, not even to myself.
My own father. I ought to hate Benedict. But my father had been a monster—and I couldn’t deny it, because I’d spent my whole life coming to terms with it. He’d had his good qualities: a sharp intellect, courage in battle, the bluff, blustering charm Tavius had inherited from him. But he’d never had the capacity for real love. And he’d cared more for his power and his throne than for anyone around him.
Another quality Tavius had inherited, as it turned out.
Did it make me a monster too if I allowed myself to care more for Benedict than I cared about justice for his crime? I didn’t want to hate him. I didn’t want to push him away. I wanted to take him in my arms and never let him go.
Benedict took a step toward me, and then another, slowlyenough that I could’ve dodged away from him or told him to stop. All the while, those gray eyes never left my face, as if he wanted to memorize me.
“There was no choice,” he said, voice husky. “Not for me. I was trying to tell you before we bonded. To giveyoua choice, because you shouldn’t be tied to me under false pretenses. I’ve lied to you enough.”
“Trying to tell me,” I repeated. He was right, I’d stopped him from saying anything more when we were about to bond.No more confessions. But I’d expected it to be something else I wouldn’t want to hear, and not… “Trying to tell me—Benedict, were you trying to tell me that you, you,” oh, gods, the word would sound so stupid aloud, I simply couldn’t. “Care for me?” I finished instead, like a coward.
His laugh had a sharp, bitter edge to it, and his eyes blazed. “Care for you? You can’t even say it, can you? It disgusts you too much, doesn’t it? To even think it. That I love you. That I love you enough that I—gods, Lucian! I knew I’d never be able to win you if I murdered your father, I knew I’d lost you, but I couldn’t let him kill you. And I’d never had you in the first place, anyway,” he said, the break in his voice echoed by a sympathetic resonance in my chest, a snap I could almost hear.
Benedict loved me.
He’d loved me three years ago.
And the way he gazed down at me, I found it difficult to doubt him—not with years’ worth of longing shining out of his eyes, nothing hidden from me.
Helovedme.
The tightness in my chest spread down, lower, my breath catching and the pit of my stomach in a knot.
Benedict was so close. I could tilt my head up and he’d kiss me, because the way his eyes had dropped to my lips told me how much he wanted to.
