and I read his mood in a heartbeat whenever he brushed his hands over my body. But when he fell to silence, or when his expression contorted with anger or lust, I saw none of it.
I existed in a vacuum that was, in many ways, a shelter from the storm.
There’s no hiding now.
Instead, I feel unsteady, like he’s set me down in a tiny boat and pushed me out to sea without a single oar to carry me back to shore. I feel every wave that crests the hull and every sharp gust of wind that sets me farther off course.
My grip on the tub tightens. “When I first looked at you—when I saw you—you were lost to the darkness.”
Those blue eyes of his flicker to my face, startled, and I almost say, I understand. Because, God help us both, but I do. He looks haunted, and hunted, and if I thought he’d accept it, I’d leap to my feet and take the five steps separating us to wrap him in a hug. Uncertainty, however, keeps my arse planted on the stool after I shut off the water tap.
“You let it win tonight, didn’t you.”
“I drowned, Rowena. It didn’t just win, I . . . Jesus.” His Adam’s apple bobs with a hard swallow, and he presses his shoulder against the wall closest to him. His entire body sags into the support while his big hands slip into the front pockets of his trousers. Deep down, I can’t help but wonder if he’s ever allowed himself to appear so vulnerable. After a moment, he admits, “I let myself drown in a way that I haven’t in years.”
“Why?”
His dark brows furrow. “What do you mean why?”
“What happened tonight that made you lose self-control?”
That unsmiling mouth quirks at the corners, and my heart flutters hopelessly. “Self-control is a figment of our imagination. It’s the rules of society telling us that we need to keep silent when we want to scream or that we ought to walk when all we want to do is run.”
“You’re saying it’s a social construct?”
“I’m saying that I can act as well as the best of them, but I’m the man screaming when no one is listening and I’m running when the rest of the world is down on their hands and knees.”
“And tonight?” I prod gently. “What happened tonight?”
The muscle in his jaw jumps again, and then he confesses, “I let the world hear me scream.”
Oh, Damien.
As if my hand belongs to someone else, I watch myself reach for him. Palm up. Fingers loosely curled. Not so unlike how I found Clarke at Buckingham Palace. My heart constricts with the thought. Had he reached for Margaret when he fell? Did she take his hand, just once more, before making her escape? And if she didn’t . . . how had he born it?
Because I don’t think I’ll survive if Damien turns away from me now.
I stare at my fingers, silently begging them to drop before the humiliation of rejection really kicks in. But here I am, still reaching, still hoping, when slowly I lift my gaze—and am ensnared by the hottest, most visceral shade of blue that I’ve ever seen.
Take my hand.
Please take my hand.
“I thought of you,” comes his deep baritone, his cheeks flushed with color.
Instinctively my fingers curl against my palm like his voice is a tangible caress that I feel down the pearls of my spine. “Tonight, you mean?”
“Every moment since we’ve met, Rowena.” He gives a low laugh then combs his fingers through his still-wet hair. “Even when I wanted you dead, I thought of you. I was dying and, fucking still, my mind went to you. Always to you.”
“What happened at the Palace, up on the roof, I never meant for you to be—”
“You were the angel.” When my brows shoot up in surprise, he ducks his chin like he’s uncomfortable with the admission. “The devil on his shoulder,” he adds stiffly, “and the angel dead on the floor, defeated. Except that you’re not dead”—vivid blue eyes swiftly meet mine—“and I was fully prepared to add another death to my tally tonight.” Lips pressing flat, he brings a hand to his hard jaw. “Only, I couldn’t do it. After a lifetime of doing what has to be done, no matter the cost, I couldn’t do it.”
The god who dons the crown of the hero . . . Somehow, I knew it would always come to this with him. Damien Godwin is only