Page 68 of Impossible
“Capital idea,” Lucien said.
“Did you know about the title?” Max asked, his voice low and raw.
Lucien’s response came fast and terse. “I’d heard.”
“And failed to mention it, to warn me.”
“It’s just talk as far as I know.”
Max hoped that was all it was.
Dougal looked to Max. “Why does this bother you so much? It’s just a bloody title, which you already possess. So what if it’s an earldom instead of a viscountcy?”
“I don’t want it. Or the celebration or the notoriety. I don’t want torememberwhy I received it.” The scars on Max’s face burned as if he’d just been scalded. He hadn’t experienced that in some time. He pinned Lucien with a bitter stare. “Just as I didn’t want your help. You had no right to interfere.”
“You’d be dead if I hadn’t.”
“I’m supposed to thank you for that?”
Lucien threw his hands up, his voice spiking with anger. “It would be nice.”
Max lunged forward, his hand already making a fist.
Dougal grabbed his arm and hauled him backward as he positioned himself between Max and Lucien. “People are staring,” he whispered urgently.
“People always stare,” Max shot back, his lip curling. He felt Dougal release him.
Lucien held his gaze. “I won’t apologize for saving you, nor will I regret it. I will always be here for you, whether you want me to be or not. If you want me to try to stop the elevation, I will. I’ll speak to my father and anyone else who will listen.” He edged forward, his features creasing with sympathy. “Your life wasn’t over when Lucia died, and it’s not over now.”
“You know what I did.” Max barely heard the words he murmured. “Try living with that.”
“I do, because I helped you,” Lucien said simply, and Max couldn’t tell if he carried the same weight of remorse and self-loathing. He certainly didn’t seem to with his successful club and his ever-increasing popularity. He sailed through life with a wide, self-assured smile and a surfeit of magnetic charm, while Max could barely eat or sleep.
Max stared at him, feeling as desolate as he ever had. “How are you not fucking broken?”
Lucien swallowed, his frame stiffening. “How do you know I’m not?” He turned and stalked off toward the Haymarket.
“Well, hell. Who am I supposed to go with?” Dougal asked. “You’re both bloody messes.”
“Go after Lucien. He will always be better company than me.”
Dougal clasped his shoulder. “I don’t want that to be true, Max. I’ve missed you. I don’t want us to lose this chance—I believe you should be here. Not just in London, but with us. With friends.”
“I’m not leaving yet.” Neither was Max promising anything. He hadn’t come here to renew friendships or forgive past mistakes, including the ones he’d made, which were far worse than anything Lucien had done.
“I’ll go talk to Lucien,” Dougal said, taking his hand from Max’s shoulder. “Are you going back to the Phoenix Club?”
Max nodded. “To sleep.” If he could. “I’m meeting with my half sister tomorrow. I have to think of what to say.”
“Just be yourself.” Dougal smiled. “Mostly.”
“Good night, Dougal.”
“Night, Max.”
Dougal hurried toward the Haymarket, and Max crossed over to Piccadilly, where he caught a hack to the Phoenix Club. By the time he stepped out of the vehicle on Ryder Street, he was annoyed with himself.
Perhaps he shouldn’t have left. Before Kent had interrupted them, Max had glimpsed a night where he could have let go of everything that kept him bound up and tethered to the past. He briefly considered going back and trying to find Dougal and Lucien, but the hack had pulled away.
