Page 107

You’re at war with yourself, she’d said. And she was right.

That was two days ago. Two days of avoiding her, and I still couldn't shake it.

Lily Whitmore had a way of dismantling me with nothing more than observation. The way she’d spoken of the Weavers, calm and certain, like she already knew how the story ended. The way her eyes had burned in the Bodleian, reverent and hungry, as if history itself might reach back and touch her. The way she’d faced me—every argument, every truth I thought I’d buried—until there was nowhere left for me to hide.

Most people I interrogated bent beneath the weight of fear. She debated.

Most people I intimidated looked away. She met my eyes and refused to blink.

Most people saw a hunter, a weapon. She saw the man who had forgotten how to be anything else.

That was what haunted me—not her beauty, though it was undeniable. Not her mystery, though it gnawed at me. But the way she looked at me as if there was still a choice left to make. As if the man buried beneath the armor might still be worth saving.

And I was falling for her because of it.

I had filled my days with patrols and pointless errands, anything to keep from being near her. But the Pemberton dinner loomed, and my father’s command had been clear—bring her. Which meant I had to prepare her.

The briefings were their own kind of torment. Sitting across from her in my study, going over her fabricated history—Adeline’s cousin from the countryside, visiting Oxford to see the libraries. Teaching her which names to drop, which subjects to avoid, which lies to perfect. She learned with frightening ease, absorbing deception as if it were a language she’d always known.

She never mentioned what had happened between us, and neither did I. But it lived there in the silence between words, in the glances that lingered a heartbeat too long, in the quiet tension neither of us could quite disguise.

By the end, I knew her false life like a prayer I’d been forced to memorize. I could anticipate her questions before she asked them. I could feel her gaze even with my back turned. She was woven through me—in my thoughts, in my breath, in the quiet ache that wouldn’t let go.

The woman was going to get me killed. Because I cared. Despite all the reasons not to, despite my father, my duty, and the beliefs I was raised to hold—I cared about her. And that made her the most dangerous thing I'd ever faced.

I found her standing in the foyer, her fingers flexing at her sides, nails digging into the soft fabric of her skirts. The dress fit her exactly as I'd known it would. Deep emerald green, the fabric clinging to her waist before flaring out in soft, fluid waves. It was elegant—far too elegant for a woman who wasn't meant to be seen. And yet, every damn inch of her demanded to be seen. Gold embroidery caught the sconces' flicker, glowing as she moved, satin whispering along the floor.

Her hair had been pinned back at the sides, though a few rebellious strands had slipped free and framed her face in soft waves.

Beautiful. Dangerous. Mine for the evening, even if she didn't know it yet.

She looked up as I descended the stairs, and something flickered across her face—recognition, awareness, then something harder. Colder.

“You planned this,” she said flatly.

It wasn't a question.

I took the last few steps slowly, letting my gaze travel over her.

“You look stunning.”

“Don't.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides. “Don't do that.”

“Do what?”

“Act like—” She stopped herself, jaw clenching. “You've avoided me for three days. Barely looked at me during those briefings. And now you're standing there looking at me like⁠—”

Again, she stopped. Like I wanted to kiss her again. Like I regretted stopping. Like I was fighting the pull in my bones not to close the distance between us.

“Like what?” I asked quietly.

“Like nothing happened. Like you didn't kiss me and then run.”

There it was. The accusation I'd been avoiding for three days.

“I didn't run.”

“You left without a word.”