Page 77 of Duke of Iron
Logan turned, finally, and looked at her. His eyes were rimmed in silver, sharp enough to cut. “He is my father’s last act of vengeance,” he said. “Even in death, the old bastard gets what he wants.”
May stood. “That cannot be true.”
He raised a brow, and it was almost a smile. “Oh, but it is. He never forgave me for living when she died.”
May’s insides shriveled, and she wanted to tell him it wasn’t true, that he was wanted, that there had to be some error. But she knew too well the efficiency with which the world arranged its losses. “You are not to blame for that,” she whispered.
He shook his head, jaw clenched. “I was the perfect project. His redemption. The instrument by which he would justify my mother’s death. I was to be the best. I was to be everything she died for.” His laugh was raw. “So when I disappointed him, there was nothing left but to start over. To create another.”
May felt a rush of panic, an old fear surfacing. “He… he did not—” She stopped, unsure how to phrase the next part delicately, and then decided not to. “He did not… hurt you, did he?”
Logan met her eyes for a long, unbroken moment. “Not in ways you can see,” he said, and May felt as if someone had pressed a hand to her chest and squeezed until it hurt.
They stood like that, neither quite knowing what to do.
“I am sorry,” May said, because it was the only thing that seemed possible.
“You are not the one who should be.” Logan’s smile was a ghost of itself. “But thank you.”
He let his hand drift along the mantel, and May saw the way it trembled before he closed it into a fist.
“I have to keep him,” Logan said suddenly, as if the words had been hiding somewhere and leaped out without warning. “The boy. I cannot let him go. He is all that is left of my father, and all that is left of me, too. I have to keep him safe.”
May moved to stand beside him. She set her hand, carefully, on his arm. “You do not have to do it alone.”
He turned to her, and in the firelight, his face was younger than she’d ever seen it. “You do not have to stay, either. The arrangement was never meant for this.”
May thought of all the ways she could answer—with pride, with anger, with hurt. But what she said was, “I think I should like to stay. If you will have me.”
Logan stared at her, as if she were an equation he could not solve.
She laughed a little. “Someone has to teach the baby to play chess. And to torment the servants. And to be good at cards.”
Logan covered her hand with his. “You are very strange,” he said.
“I know.” She squeezed his fingers. “But so are you. And you are not as alone as you think.”
His eyes softened, just a fraction. “You really mean to stay.”
“I do.”
He let her hand go, only to draw her into a sudden, impulsive hug. It was brief, and awkward, and he pulled away almost at once, but in that moment, May felt something in her chest go soft and bright and terrifying.
She looked up at him, and for the first time, thought,I am not afraid. Not truly.
He released her and turned his face away, but not before she saw the shine in his eyes.
There was a pause, during which May tried to recall what it was like to have a heart that beat in a regular way. She felt as thoughshe had been struck by lightning, and the inside of her was all burnt sugar.
Logan stepped back, smoothing his coat. “I should warn you. The world will not be gentle. The news will be everywhere, and we will be dissected, analyzed, made into a parlor game.”
May smiled. “Then let us give them something worth gossiping about.”
He snorted, and this time the smile was real. “You are incorrigible.”
She made a small bow. “I have learned from the best.”
The fire had burned low, and the shadows in the room seemed to gather around them like a cloak. Logan looked at her and said, almost gently, “Thank you, May.”
