Good.
He held very still. “Just me. And I would be grateful if you did not demonstrate the rest of your training upon my person.”
Not quite a joke. Perhaps necessary, though.
A splinter of light slipped through the rafters above, and her gaze sharpened by degrees, moving from his bent form to his face.
Color drained from her cheeks.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Gideon?”
“There you are,” he said. It was the only thing that mattered.
He had known it was her, of course. Even in the first wild instant, when she had twisted against him with shocking force and blind terror, he had known. Had it been anyone else, he would have ended the struggle at once.
A single blow. A hard one.
Instead, he had held on.
Taken the elbow. The heel. The frantic, breathless fight of her body against his. He had done what he could to contain her without hurting her, enduring until she came back enough to strike with devastating accuracy.
“Beatrice,” he said again, softer this time. “Do you know where you are?”
Her eyes remained fixed on his.
“Yes,” she whispered. “The opera.”
Only then did he let himself breathe.
And yet, even through the rather blinding immediacy of his disabling pain, a shattering realization was moving in. Something far more sobering than his temporary discomfort.
Her reaction to him had not been surprise. Nor even indignation.
She’d been terrified.
Gideon straightened—slowly, with considerable effort—and lifted his gaze to where she stood in the dim light, her breath still uneven, her posture… yes. Frozen.
“Good God, Beatrice,” he managed at last, his voice roughened beyond his liking. “Remind me never to take you unawares again.”
The second attempt at levity fell flat. He had not truly expected otherwise.
Because she was looking at him.
Not with her usual fire. Not with embarrassment. Not even with apology.
Every instinct urged him forward—to reach for her, to take her into his arms. He did neither, however. He had already made that mistake.
Instead, he remained precisely where he was, allowing space between them.
He was dimly aware of stinging along his jaw, throbbing behind his eye, along with a few other insults as a result of her resistance. None of it was consequential.
This had not been about him.
“It’s only me, Bea,” he said, his voice lowered deliberately. “You’re safe.” When she didn’t immediately respond, he added, more softly, “I’m here.”
A pause.
Her breath hitched.
