Page 93 of Evie and Louis: The Story so Far

“Are they t-true?” she asked him, her green eyes full of anxiety.

Louis gritted his teeth, his jaw flexing, but there was little point in lying, and he had sworn to always give her the truth, had he not. He wanted her to know the worst of him and love him anyway, but he had wanted more time than this, wanted her bound to him before she could run from him in fear, cowardly as that was. Louis lowered his lashes, staring at the floor with a frown as he wished he could deny it all, but he could not. He would not.

“Probably,” he said bitterly.

She nodded, as if she had known all along.

Louis lifted his eyes to hers again, aware of the tension vibrating from her. “You’re afraid of me.” He wanted to weep, to howl with misery but did not move an inch, just watched her. She nodded.

“Yes, you know that.”

The silence stretched out, taut and sickening.

She swallowed, and he saw the way her throat worked. He thought perhaps she was trembling. Was she truly that frightened of him? His heart clenched.

“Papa… Papa said… he said you’ve killed three m-men,” she stammered.

Louis flinched, the words too stark, too awful. His stomach roiled but he faced her, hiding nothing. “Yes.”

She sucked in a breath, and he knew she had hoped her father had been mistaken, that Louis had been maligned. He could not lie to her, would not lie. Only Wolf knew the whole truth, and he would never betray Louis. Her father’s men must have been clever indeed to find one of the few people willing to speak against him, to uncover the truth when even his brother did not know everything.

“Why?” There was pleading behind that one word, a wrenching sound that cut at him, but the desire to understand him shone in her eyes and he took comfort from that, clinging to hope.

“Because they deserved to die,” he said, meaning it with all his heart. “I’m glad they’re dead. Does that horrify you?”

She nodded, her complexion ashen. “Why did they deserve it?”

He shook his head, vehement on that point. He would not sully her with such explanations. “I shan’t tell you that. You would have nightmares, but they were evil, cruel, vile excuses for men. I don’t regret it.”

There was defiance in his words, and he held her gaze, refusing to feel shame for what he’d done.

She nodded again, her eyes glittering with tears now. He wondered how much more she could take before she screamed for her father, for help.

“Do you want me to go?” He felt sick, not wanting to give her the choice, terrified of the answer, for he did not know how to walk away from her.

It was a long time coming as she stared at him, her breathing fast and panicked. Then, slowly, she shook her head.

“No,” she whispered, barely audible, and then louder, more decisively. “No.”

Louis let out a breath of relief, though he knew he had not yet won her over. He swallowed, waiting. She watched him, like a mouse watching a cat prowl a circle around it, waiting for the killing blow.

“You’re dangerous,” she said softly. “That’s what he said.”

“And is that what you think?” he asked, wretched now, his voice rough, remembering when she’d trusted him with everything she had and feeling his throat tighten at the trepidation in her eyes now.

“Yes,” she said, and the pain of that answer lanced through him, cutting him to the quick. “But… But not to me. Never to me, Louis.”

She ran to him then, ran into his embrace and Louis could not help the soft cry of joy that escaped him as he closed his arms about her, holding her to him.

“Mon amour, mon amour, Dieu merci, Dieu merci,” he murmured into her hair, tears stinging his eyes as he breathed her in, the familiar achingly innocent scent of chamomile so intoxicating he was drunk with it, with joy, with the relief of holding her in his arms. “Evie, my love.”

He pressed his mouth to her temple, kissing the tender skin, cupping her face within his hands and kissing her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, engulfed by the tenderness he felt for her. It rose within him, a tide of love and longing and hope, overwhelming him with everything he wanted.

“Did you mean it?” she asked, and he did not pretend to misunderstand.

“Of course, you think I would write such a thing in black and white if I did not?” he said, smiling now, his heart bursting with joy.

“Tell me,” she whispered, her hands fisting the fabric of his shirt as she gazed up at him.