Page 86 of Greed: The Savage
In every way.
Chapter 22
Malric asked her to marry him. More like he’dinsistedupon it. Had he even put it forth as a question?
She couldn’t recall.
It didn’t matter.
Here she’d not believed herself to possess a heart, let alone one that could be broken by anyone. Certainly not broken by a man. Only to have Malric come along and do so irrevocably, thus proving her utterly, and pathetically, pitiably wrong.
They’d sparred and battled since their first meeting at the Devil’s Den, and in the end, he’d proven the ultimate winner.
He’d broken her…and her heart.
Addien stood outside the prominent carved mahogany paneled door belonging to the Earl of Dynevor and stared blankly at the cherubs and demons tangled up in some macabre dance. Her gaze remained locked with a particularly cruel, vicious sin eater. His soulless, black painted, bulging eyes mocked Addien for her naivety and foolishness.
To have even believed for a moment the Marquess of Thornwick would actually want to marry her. Because if he truly did,surely, he would have had a better reason.
Here she’d been believing he’d made his offer out of some sense of largess, and even having been sure of it, that the sight of her virgin’s blood mingled with his essence, staining her once-white sheets had prodded some gentlemanly sense of guilt. Any other time, she would’ve laughed at him. That was, any other time before she’d gone and fallen foolishly, hopelessly, and stupidly in love with him.
An uncontrollable shake started in her legs, a terrific tremor that moved up her body. Her teeth chattered, clinking together.
Addien flung both hands out to brace herself against the oak doorjamb. Her nails bit into the soft, polished wood, leaving deep crescent grooves in its flawless surface. She’d marred the grandest part of this palace of sin—and yet that fragile grip was the only thing keeping her upright. If she let go, she’d crumble, and she knew she’d never find the strength to rise again.
She’d been brought low today. Lower than ever before.
Not when she’d begged in the streets. Not when she’d stolen from mates to keep herself from starving. Not even by the baroness’s brother, Dunworthy.
Not even the time, as a girl, when a nob had crept up on her in the gutters, pinned her, and tried to take from her without so much as a pence for his cruel, vulgar trouble.
Oh, the bloody irony. She’d been brought down completely…and it had been a nobleman after all.
Just not in the way she’d ever imagined.
Tears made a joke of her usually great vision. Ultimately, that’s what she’d become. One great, enormous, pathetic, wretched shadow of who she’d always believed she actually was. But she was nothing. She was not strong. She was not invincible or incapable of being hurt. She’d been wrecked. And without so much as a blow having been landed, or a sharp cutting insult being delivered. Simply by being, by going unloved by him. Someone had broken her.
“Addien.” That harsh, concerned, gravelly voice behind her brought Addien up and around. She spun so quick, and lightheaded from the suddenness with which she rose, she nearly hit the floor for a second time. The Earl of Dynevor caught her about the arm and steadied her.
“Whoa,” he said gruffly.
As uncomfortable as he’d always been when presented with the girls in the club who’d been harmed by patrons or hurt inother ways, he flinched. Soothing wasn’t his strong suit. It wasn’t evenoneof his suits.
How could it be? How after the life he’d lived?
Addien distantly registered him letting her into his office and steering her inside, and then kicking the door closed behind them. Still retaining a grasp on her, Dynevor escorted her over to the leather button sofa and gave her a slightly forceful but still gentle shove, so she fell into the folds.
When the earl held a snifter of French spirits under her nose, she didn’t even hesitate to take it.
Murmuring, “Thanks,” Addien tossed back a long swallow. She grimaced, welcoming the burning hot trail it weaved down her throat and also the warmth it brought her within.
How utterly humiliating. Mortifying. Cringe-worthy. Here she sat, no different than pretty, polite ladies. She couldn’t stop herself from shaking.
There came the scrape of wood as the earl dragged his leather armchair closer. “Impressive,” he remarked.
No doubt because he didn’t know what else to say when presented with a distraught female.
God, how had she become a distraught female?
