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“I don’t know. You tell me.”
He smiles a little. “I’m as romantic as the next Romeo.”
I force out a laugh. “That’s not even a love story.”
“What, Romeo and Juliet?” He leans his elbows against the back of his chair. “It’s the ultimate love story.”
“Didn’t know you were a Shakespeare fan.”
“How could I not be? Stories are the most beautiful lies in the world.”
I swallow my bite. “Well, it’s not a love story. It’s a tragedy, about two children who destroy themselves in a spiral of emotional obsession with each other.”
He snorts. “I never said love stories couldn’t be tragic.”
I cross my arms and lean against the table. “Love and obsession are obviously not the same thing.”
Étienne points his fork at me. “I dissent. Obsession is not always love, but love is always an obsession.”
“Objection.” I play along, raising a hand. “The hormonal patterns differ between obsession and love.”
“Both involve dopamine,” he says, staring straight at me. “Which gives us pleasure.”
Why is my heart suddenly pounding? Usually I’m the only one spouting scientific facts. I clear my throat and distract myself by gesturing with my hands. “Sure,” I explain, “but love also involves much more serotonin and oxytocin. Feel-good hormones that give us joy. But obsession heightens cortisol, which is stress.”
He smiles. “Now who’s being romantic?”
My blush deepens, and I try to hide it by taking a gulp of water. “I’m just saying,” I say defensively.
He shrugs. “Love is pretty stressful. That’s a fact.”
“Obsession implies that you’ve abandoned all reason and self-preservation. It’s fundamentally seen as a negative trait. But true love is a beautiful thing.”
He gives me a pointed look. “Rose, I’ve seen it myself. Countless times on countless missions. Do you know how often I’ve witnessed the effect of love gone wrong? When caught in the throes of it, people will tell the most spectacular lies. They will lie to themselves that the other person is perfection itself, even if that person is a monster. They will lie to protect them against all odds, even at great peril to themselves. They will lie to hurt others in order to rescue their loved one. They will lie to their loved one, in order to protect them. They would rather other people die than disrupt that love. That’s obsession, Rose. Love is relative. And no matter how twisted it might seem to others—to them, it is pure.”
“That’s a grotesque exaggeration,” I argue. “It doesn’t mean all people in love would go to unsafe extremes to protect that love.”
“It does,” he insists. “Romeo and Juliet did. They gave up their lives because they couldn’t bear to live without each other. That’s the point. All-consuming. And you would, too.”
“I wouldn’t. That’s not love. That’s toxic. That’s addiction.”
His smile is different this time, secret, quiet, beckoning. “Then perhaps you’ve never been in love before,” he says.
I swallow hard, trying to calm the sudden flutter of my heart. Why am I now imagining what he’s like when in love? What he would do, when in its throes? What extremes he would go to?
The chamber, filled with water. Drowning. His lips against mine, kissing me deeply.
Don’t be such a simpering idiot, I scold myself, shaking off the dream. “And what about you?” I ask instead. “Are you really saying that you’d be willing to give up your entire identity for someone? That you’d let love consume you?”
“I don’t half-ass anything, Rose,” he says, his voice quieter now, his eyes locked on mine. “It’s either my entire heart and soul, or nothing at all.”
A shiver courses through me at his words. His silk bracelet stays cool against my wrist, reminding me that he is still telling the truth. And all I can think of are Raven’s words to me about getting closer to him.
It should be fairly easy for you.
I don’t want to think that he was right. That this has been more enjoyable than I care to admit. That I’m starting to feel reluctant for it to end.
I don’t know what to say, so I close my mouth and look toward the river, trying to stay calm. The afternoon light is stretching thinner now, bright yellow-white light shifting to longer wavelengths, orange and red drenching swathes of rolling hillside and trees, painting the Thames in a ribbon of gold. The glow outlines Étienne in a halo, and I find myself lingering on the memory of his bared chest and scarred back, his skin ringed with light.
