The Devil in Her Bed (Devil You Know #3) - Kerrigan Byrne Page 0,96

chest.

He dragged his knuckles down her cheek, his expression as peaceful and tender as she’d ever seen. His eyes glowed with a light she dared not identify, and it searched her face with a reverence she found both humbling and terrifying.

She blinked up at him, and he answered her unspoken question.

“I love you,” he repeated, as if she hadn’t heard. As if he couldn’t believe it, himself. “I think I was halfway in love with you before I even realized I was falling.”

Francesca’s tears turned to terror and she scrambled from his lap. “You—you can’t say that to me. Not right now.”

He searched his empty arms as if they befuddled him. “Why not?”

“Because…” She swallowed an instant confession, any sort of courage abandoning her. “You don’t. You don’t love me. You love who you think I should be. Who I was as a child. You are annoyed with me more often than not and—”

“I love you,” he repeated in an infuriatingly calm voice.

“I’m telling you. You don’t know me. Not really,” she insisted, turning to look for a robe, for something that would make her feel less naked. She’d left one on the back of the chair this morning and now it was gone. Damn her staff for being so efficient. “Think about what you’re saying. You keep telling me what not to do. You insist I must be other than I am. I’ve seen love, and that isn’t it.”

He was behind her in an instant, turning her to face him. “You misunderstand me, Francesca. I love who you are, but I insist you stop risking your life, that is all. I want a future with you, so you have to stop putting yourself in danger.” He gathered her close, burying his face into her hair. “You are mine, Francesca. My woman. My dragon. I … love you.”

Bloody hell, she was going to start weeping again. “But—”

“I love you, dammit, now stop arguing.” He pulled back, his command tempered by a soft light shining on his features and a determined set to his hard jaw. “You’re the hope I have for happiness. The light at the end of this dark tunnel. Can’t you see that? I am irate when you put yourself in danger because you have to be there at the end, or it was all worth nothing. I can’t lose you, Francesca.” His fingers tightened on her, a fervent—no, desperate—emotion pushing to the forefront of his gaze. “I won’t survive it a second time.”

Francesca.

She froze as still as the ice needled through her. Was now the time to be honest? And if she was, would he be glad to hear it? Or would she be the woman to kill Francesca all over again? He’d hate her for that. And maybe it would … cause him greater pain. What was the kindest thing to do?

What was the right thing?

He brushed at her cheek, now dry and itchy from the salt of so many tears. “Do you remember what I said that night in my carriage, back before you knew who I was?”

She searched her memory. “That I’d ruin you?”

“I knew you would. You would ruin Chandler Alquist and Declan Chandler and Thom Tew, and Lord Drake, Edward Thatch, all of them. I knew, somehow, that you would forge someone new. Someone real. That you would scramble about the sun and stars until I could no longer find them in the night sky without your help. You would make me care about something other than myself. Other than my revenge. That you would become someone to die for. Would give me something to live for. I think I knew, even at the first kiss…” He looked at her lips as if seeing her for the first time.

Francesca stared at him, unable to move. Unable to breathe. Her nostrils flared and her eyes pooled, but she couldn’t seem to bring herself to say anything.

After a long moment, he seemed to read the torment in her eyes and let her go. “You … don’t feel the same way.”

The confusion and uncertainty in his voice broke her of her paralysis, and she clutched at him.

“Of course I love you, you bloody dolt.” She shook him a little for emphasis. “I loved you the moment you wobbled onto the Mont Claire estate and I never stopped. I loved you as a boy, and as my hero, and as a ghost. I loved you even when I was angry enough to murder you. Chandler, there’s