“Is that what happened?” The words slipped from her lips before she could stop them, too quiet, too flat. She kept her eyes on the door, refusing to turn, refusing to let him see whatever storm was unraveling inside her.
The lock finally gave, and she pushed through, stepping into the familiar safety of her flat.
“Yes. Why? What—?”
Something in his tone shifted. Then, his hand closed around her wrist. It wasn’t tight, or forceful. Just enough to stop her. Just enough to pull her back.
“Hey.” His voice was lower now, quieter. “Look at me, Emmaline.”
“What?” She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, unwilling to face him.
Either he was the monster Caelith had made him out to be, or… or he wasn’t. And if he wasn’t, then Caelith had lied, and she had just blown things with Deyric. And that would be so much worse.
“Emmaline.” Deyric closed the distance, his fingers tilting her chin up, guiding her face toward his.
She flinched. The reaction was instinctive, barely more than a flicker, but he saw it. His eyes widened, shock flashing across his features before smoothing into something unreadable.
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak for a long, stretching beat.
Then, his voice was low, controlled—too controlled. “Did someone… hurt you?”
“No!” She stumbled back, ripping her face from his touch, her pulse a frantic, uneven thing. “You weren’t there! Where were you?!”
She couldn’t stand the concern in his eyes. Couldn’t breathe beneath the way he was looking at her, like she was something fragile,something in danger of shattering. Not after what she’d done with Caelith.
“I’m sorry.” He stepped forward but stopped himself, hands lifting in a slow, placating gesture. “As I said, finishing my work for the day took longer than planned.” He exhaled, frustration tinging the edges of his words. “I didn’t have your speak-easy sign, but I got there as soon as I could. Ursula said you’d left for the night.”
His gaze swept over her, taking in her bare feet and her disheveled state. Then, more carefully, he added, “Emmaline, I know I screwed up, but this—” He reached for her shoulder, his touch light, questioning. “Did something happen?”
His fingers trailed down her arm, and that’s when he noticed it.
The shirt.
His whole body went rigid.
“Where did you get this?” His fingers touched the fabric as if confirming what he already knew. His teeth ground together. “I recognize it. It’s from Lord Caelith’s collection.”
Emmaline shoved his hand away, retreating toward the balcony. Air. She needed air.
Behind her, she heard him step forward. “Emmaline!”
“You weren’t there!” The words tore from her throat as she whirled on him. “He was.” Her hands balled into fists, shaking at her sides. She swung, slamming them into his chest, striking against the solid wall of him with more force than she thought she had left.
“The things he said you’d told him—” She struck again, voice cracking, unraveling. “It was enough to make me sick.”
“What I said?” His hands shot out, catching her wrists and pinning them in his palms. His grip wasn’t rough, wasn’t bruising, but itdidn’t yield. “I wouldn’t tell that stain of a man anything—let alone anything about you.”
“You’re lying.”
He had to be. She couldn’t breathe. Because if he wasn’t lying, then Caelith had simply used her.
And if that was true, then he wasn’t her mate. And if that was true, then what she had felt, the way her body had responded, the pleasure she had drowned in—it couldn’t have been natural.
A violent heave rolled through her stomach. She tore out of his grip, shoving past him, barely making it to the sink before she collapsed against it, choking as her body rejected everything inside her.
The world went gray, and she heaved again, nausea wracking her, bile scorching her throat.
Then—a hand at the base of her head, pulling her hair back from her face. And another on her back, rubbing slow, steady circles.
