“Nikolas.”
Elara was there, hands framing his face with gentleness he couldn’t resist. So help him, he nestled into her palms and allowed himself to breathe.
When his pulse evened out, he opened his eyes.
“You have to start somewhere.” She cleaned the pot, then measured out more cream and butter.
“We can always try again.”
Again.
He liked the sound of that. There were many things in his life Nik couldn’t take back or fix, but this wasn’t one. Tonight, here in this kitchen, with her, anything was possible. He could keep going until he succeeded at something.
He took the whisk.
Together, they started again.
16ELARA
There were reminders of last night everywhere: leftover madeleines and custard, dirty mugs in the sink, a delicate silver scar down her forearm. It had all been real and not some brief, lovely dream.
The house looked different this morning now that she knew the story of the lavender outside her window and the leaves painted on her walls.
Elara stood in the gardens, admiring the purple bursting from every window.
It was all an homage to Nikolas’s mother—a woman who made magie in the Restes. That kind of passion and power belonged somewhere it could flourish. Was that why she’d died? She’d been planted in the wrong soil? Was that why Nikolas moved across the river to try and find a home with Lafontaine?
The name held more weight than before.
You need him as much as he needs you.
That couldn’t possibly be true. He was Souverain Baptiste Lafontaine, one of the seven most powerful people in the city. He could do anything.
Except convince the Counseil to relinquish their control and allow fairness into their Sociétés.
“Someone was busy last night.”
Elara whipped around to find Blai staring at her from the kitchen doorway. From their stony expression, they were not teasing.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Elara nudged inside to grab a cookie.
“Then what are these?”
“Breakfast.” She took a bite. “Goes great with custard.”
“I bet they do.”
Elara choked.
“We don’t needdistractions.” Blai dipped one into their café and nodded to the counter. “You’ve got a couple of notes there.”
“I am not distracted by anything but your nosiness.”
Except she’d somehow missed the folded letters. Nikolas must’ve left them while she was in the garden. Had he eaten some of their leftovers? Did he regret opening up to her last night? Did he still feel the burn of her skin just as she felt his?
One was the black contest note, and she dreaded opening it.
She picked the plain one first. Her false name had been penned with such painstaking care, the curls and swoops as delicate as if her name had been meant for no other purpose than to be written by—nope. No. Elara knew better than to let some handsome face carry her sensibilities right out the window. Besides, the name was proof she wasn’t ready to trust him with her identity, let alone anything else.
