She screamed between her teeth and hurled another stick at him. It, too, missed. “And to think I was starting to lov?—”
“Love me?” He shouldn’t have smiled at that. He certainly shouldn’t find her so beautiful in her fury, even as his stomachtwisted. He eased a step closer, surreptitiously pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.
“No. The only l-word I would ever use for you isloathe.” She, too, stepped closer and smacked his chest. “I loathe you.”
He stared down at her, struggling to breathe past the pain lancing through his chest. He’d thought they were making progress. He’d been sure she hadn’t loathed him the previous night.
And now she glared daggers, swords, and all manner of other pointy weapons at him.
Had he been wrong about Lysander being the Wild Fae Primrose? Beatrice was acting as if her family was at risk. Yet he’d ruled out both Favian and Basil as being too mild-mannered and too busy to pull off everything the Primrose had. While Munch certainly had the skills, the Primrose had been operating in the Fae Realm for years before he had arrived. Sebastian, too, had been rather young when the Primrose started operating, and his move to the Court of Islands seemed to indicate that he wasn’t involved anymore, if he’d ever been.
Maybe Beatrice simply believed in the Primrose’s cause this much? Was she, in fact, a part of the Primrose League?
“Well, I don’t loathe you.” Benedict took another step closer so that they were chest to chest. He held her gaze, willing her to read his sincerity in his eyes. “Please. We’ve spent weeks in each other’s company. You know me. You know my heart. I’m asking you to trust me.”
She held his gaze, fury still lighting her eyes. She didn’t back down or put space between them, no matter how wise it would have been. “Then prove it. Tell me what is going on. Vow that you aren’t here to capture the Primrose.”
He opened his mouth but hesitated. How much dare he say? How much would his previous vow even let him say?
As his hesitation lengthened, her gaze hardened, and she leaned away from him. “I see. I should have known. You can’t.”
“It isn’t that. I just…” He trailed off, hesitating again. The Library was too important to risk, even to calm her fears. But if he didn’t calm her and get both of them into hiding, then this whole trap would be blown. “Beatrice, please…”
A softer whisper rustled from the nook’s entrance. He stilled, even as Beatrice started turning, her mouth opening, likely to call a warning to the person she thought would be the Primrose.
“I’m sorry.” Benedict wrapped an arm around her, spinning her to place her back to his chest, and clamped his other hand, the one with the handkerchief, over her mouth. This time when she tried to bite him, she got a mouthful of handkerchief instead of his hand. The fabric also helped muffle her angry screams. Though he was careful to make sure her nose wasn’t covered so she could still breathe.
He hauled her, kicking and squirming, back into the hiding spot behind the stand of birches. Once they were more or less crouched behind the undergrowth, he spoke into her ear. “Shh. Please be quiet. I can’t explain now, but this trap isn’t for the Wild Fae Primrose. Please trust me. The fate of the Library depends on it.”
She stopped screaming and thrashing, though she still glared at him from where she crouched, pinned in his arms.
As he held her, Benedict grew more and more aware of the gentle sound of her breathing, each breath shifting her body subtly against him. His skin tingled at the points of contact.
She’d grown up from that gangly ten-year-old with flyaway hair that he had treated so terribly.
Had he grown up enough to be worthy of even hoping for something more with her? He’d been a cruel child, encouraged by his parents and by the fae around him in his actions.
Not that it would likely matter how much he’d grown and changed. She was determined to end the mate bond, and once they did, there would never be any hope of anything more between them.
And he would go through with it, if that was what she wanted. He wouldn’t keep her in this binding against her will.
When he eased his hand from her mouth, she hissed, “Fine. But if you’re lying…”
He met her gaze again, his voice low and rough as he willed her to believe him. “I vow I am not lying.”
Her blue eyes widened, but he yanked his gaze away as a figure made its way between the trees.
A fae man with blond hair and expertly tailored navy silk tunic and trousers strode into the small clearing with all the arrogant confidence of a lord. When he glanced in their direction, his face left Benedict in no doubt of the terrible, heart-piercing truth, much as he’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this.
His father. His father was working with Claudius.
Beside him, Beatrice made a slight squeak, as if she was prepared to launch into him again.
Father’s gaze swung in their direction, his eyes sharpening, even as Borachio strolled into the clearing and halted at their father’s side. His presence was no surprise.
“Stay here,” Benedict breathed, hoping against all hope that Beatrice would listen. Then he rose to his feet and strode around the stand of saplings, a smile plastered into place.
Of course the spy was his own father. Benedict had suspected his brother Borachio, but his father made even more, horrible sense. That would be the only reason the spy would negotiate with Claudius to have the real Benedict returned instead of a fake Benedict like the others. Benedict might be the lesser of his two sons in Father’s eyes, but he had enough pride that he’d want his own flesh and blood returned instead of a false one.
