Page 78 of Fallen Crown

The silence thickens between us, and he tightens his arm slung around my waist, drawing me flush.

“Talk to me,” he says. “Is your leg sore? Something else?” He draws in an audible breath. “You can talk to me about anything.”

The way he says it makes me think he’s inviting a discussion about Enzo, but it’s better if I give him part of the truth, just in case his thoughts are wandering in a direction it’s best they don’t go. I’m not the woman he wants, the one he’s seeking for what he really wants. There will be no babies or arrangements made between us. My sad heart hardens a little at the thought.

“Last time, when I was racing, I hurt myself. When I fell.” I haven’t said these words out loud to anyone. The doctor told Enzo and my family, and I’ve never had to get them past my lips. Brice splays his hand across my stomach. “I miscarried.”

There’s no sharp indrawn breath behind me, but he goes very still against me. We aren’t facing each other, so I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe it’s better I can’t see. I hate when people look at me with pity. It’s not an emotion I can tolerate.

“I already knew,” Brice says. “Posey found out by accident and told me.”

“By accident?” My tone is acidic, and I throw the sleeping bag off us to sit on the edge of the couch. The heaters have made the hut warm, and the sleeping bag was becoming claustrophobic. The cooler air on my skin is a relief. “How does Posey Jensen find out something like that by accident?”

He shifts to sit beside me, and when he tries to lay his hand on my thigh, I brush him off.

“You admitted you asked her to dig up dirt on me.” I drag my hands down my face. “What were you planning to do with that information?”

“Nothing,” he says. “She told me because… because I was having a hard time letting go of my preconceived notions of who you were.”

His admission only makes the tightness in my chest worse. I always attributed, whether I really thought about it or not, his change in behavior toward me to his father’s illness and my empathy. Instead, he found out about the most traumatic thing that’s ever happened to me and softened because of that.

“If you hadn’t found out, you’d still hate me.”

“No,” he says with conviction. “No.”

I stand up, and my leg that’s bandaged buckles. Brice rises and catches me about the waist. He tips my chin up when I refuse to make eye contact.

“Maren,” he says.

“Don’t treat me like I’m being unreasonable. You went behind my back. You wanted to hurt me.”

“I don’t know what I wanted back then. It was months ago. A lifetime ago. Neither of us are exactly the same person, are we?” He tries to draw me closer, and I hold my ground. “I was wrong. Really, really wrong. About you. About my approach to you. Learning that piece of your history shifted my perspective a little faster, that’s all. I would have gotten here, to this place with you, regardless.”

“How can you be so sure?” When I gaze up at him, my heart contracts at the remorse reflected there. I won’t soften toward him. For the first time, I actually wanted to share some of what happened to me, and he already knew. He’s been keeping that knowledge from me for weeks or months.

Since I won’t step closer to him, he closes the distance between us, and he searches my face. His knuckles graze my cheek, and then he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You didn’t become my favorite person on the planet by accident, Tucker. Call it whatever you want, but what’s between us has been inevitable.”

Combustible chemistry. I want to scoff at how superficial that is, but I can’t deny that what happened between us earlier on the couch didn’t merely skim the surface. A deep and meaningful connection, but it’s hard to believe he’d feel that way too given all the other things he’s said before. I keep having to remind myself that he’s not the one. Doesn’t want to be. Can’t be. Won’t be. It makes me sad and angry that I’m even thinking like this when I’m not divorced yet. Even if he did want those things, going from one relationship right into another is wrong.

“And I’m honored,” he continues, “that you trusted me enough to tell me what happened.”

“I wish you’d trusted me enough to let me tell you my secrets when I was ready.” I snatch the sleeping bag off the floor. “I’m taking the couch. Make yourself comfortable elsewhere.”

“Maren.”

“Stop doing that!” I turn on him, my leg unsteady, and when his hand snakes out to grab my elbow, I wrench myself away. “My name is not a weapon. You can’t like one part of me and still dislike the other.”

Before I can step away, he loops his arm around my waist, and he drags my naked body against his. The skin-to-skin contact immediately ignites the flame that always flickers between us.

“I don’t dislike any part of you,” he says next to my ear. “There isn’t a single inch of you that I don’t worship completely.”

“More pretty words.” My tone is breathless with betrayal. I hate that I want him even when I’m mad at him.

He turns me in his arms, and our lips connect with a mixture of frustration and something else I’m not even close to naming.

“Your skin is so soft, Maren.” He trails a line of kisses along my jaw and down my throat. “Your body is so warm, Maren.”

“Don’t mock me.” I clutch his shoulders as my knees threaten to give out. All the same sensations as before threaten to overwhelm me.