It was a small thing, barely the touch of a hand, but he had not meant to do it. It was—unconscious, or not—a deviation from his plan.
She met his eyes again and, as before, whatever it was in her that needed to protect and serve shone out from them, bright and clear, with one critical difference: this time it was for him.
At that moment, she was his.
He knew it. She didn’t.
“Are you okay?” she asked, searching his face.
The truth was a weapon. He knew that better than anyone else on the balcony. And though a strange, rusty, locked-away voice inside him pleaded with him to hold back, to refrain from what he was about to do, he ignored it.
“No,” he said, and the word was a raw and rough syllable ripped from him. It was only the truth.
And like it always did, his weapon found its mark.
Confusion skittered across her gaze.
As suddenly as they had gone awry, his plans were back on track.
All he had to do now was tell the absolute truth, reveal how excruciatingly vulnerable he was to her, how fascinated and ensnared she had him—how helpless he was in the face of his need to be beside her. All he had to do was show her that she was in utter control of everything between them, and let himself be seen and touched.
And then he could be done with it, and no one would be the wiser.
“How can I help?”
Of course, she would ask like that, leading with goodness.
“Come with me to the library.”