“This is what you two get up to over backgammon?” He took her arm, planning to help her to her room.
“Not usually, no.” Her hand came to his chest. She didn’t move, just stared at her hand on his chest, mouth grave, brow wearing a faint pleat. “We were talking.”
That sounded ominous. She glanced up and anguish edged the blue of her irises.
Instinctively, he swallowed. His hand unconsciously tightened on her elbow, but he took a half step back from her. “What were you talking about?”
“He loves you, you know.” Her mouth quivered, the corners pulling down. “He wishes you could forgive him.”
He flinched, dropping his hand from her arm.
“He understands why you can’t. Even if you did reach out to him, I don’t think he would forgive himself. It’s just...sad. He doesn’t know how to reach you and—” She rolled to lean her shoulders against the wall, swallowing. “You won’t let anyone in, ever, will you? Is this really all you want, Mikolas? Things? Sex without love?”
He swore silently, lifting his gaze to the ceiling, hands bunching into fists, fighting a wave of helplessness.
“I lied to you,” he admitted when he trusted his voice. “That first day we met, I said my grandfather gave me anything I wanted.” He lowered his gaze to her searching one. “I didn’t want any of those things I asked for.”
He had her whole attention.
“It was my test for him.” He saw now the gifts had been his grandfather’s attempts to earn his trust, but then it had been a game. A deadly, terrifying one. “I asked him for things I didn’t care about, to see if he would get them for me. I never told him what I really wanted. I never told anyone.”
He looked at his palm, rubbed one of the smooth patches where it had been held against a hot kettle, leaving shiny scar tissue.
“I never tell anyone. Physical torture is inhuman, but psychological torture...” His hand began shaking.
“Mikolas.” Her hand came into his. He started to pull away, but his fingers closed over hers involuntarily, holding on, letting her keep him from sinking into the dark memories.
His voice felt like it belonged to someone else. “They would ask me, ‘Do you want water?’ ‘Do you want the bathroom?’ ‘Do you want us to stop?’ Of course I said yes. They never gave me what I wanted.”
Her hand squeezed his and her small body came into the hollow of his front, warm and anxious to soothe, arms going around his stiff frame.
He set his hands on her shoulders, resisting her offer of comfort even though it was all he wanted, ever. He resisted because it was what he wanted beyond anything.
“I can’t—I’m not trying to hurt him. But if I trust him, if I let him mean too much to me, then what? He’s not in a position to be my savior again. He’s a weakness to be used against me. I can’t leave myself open to that. Can you understand that?”
Her arms around him loosened. For a moment her forehead rested in the center of his chest, then she pressed herself away.
“I do.” She took a deep, shaken breath. “I’m going to lie down.”
He watched her walk away while two tiny, damp stains on his shirt front stayed cold against his skin.
* * *
“Vivi!” Clair exclaimed as she approached with her husband, Aleksy.
Viveka found a real smile for the first time all night. In days, really. Things between her and Mikolas were more poignantly strained than ever. She loved him so much and understood now that he was never going to let himself love her.
“How’s the dress?” Viveka teased, rallying out of despondency for her hostess.
“I’ve taken to carrying a mending kit.” Clair ruefully jiggled her pocketbook.
“I’ve been looking forward to seeing you again,” Viveka said sincerely. “I’ve had a chance to read up on your foundation. I’m floored by all you do! And I have an idea for a fund-raiser that might work for you.”
Mikolas watched Viveka brighten for the first time in days. Her smile caused a pang in his chest that was more of a gong. He wanted to draw that warmth and light of hers against the echoing discord inside him, finally settling it.