Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 59827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59827 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 299(@200wpm)___ 239(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
“Don’t.”
The single word stops me cold.
He’s walking toward me now. Slow. Deliberate. And I’m backing up until my shoulders hit the bookshelf behind me and there’s nowhere left to go.
“Don’t,” he says again, softer this time, “insult my intelligence by pretending I didn’t mean what I said.”
His hands come up on either side of my head, palms flat against the bookshelf, caging me in.
Not touching me.
But close enough that I can smell him, soap and something woodsy and clean. Close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. Close enough that my own body is doing things my brain has not authorized.
“I meant,” he says, his voice low and fierce, “every single word.”
I can’t breathe.
“I told you I’m in love with you, and I am.” He leans closer. “And I’m done waiting for you to stop running long enough to hear me.”
“Veil—”
“You want to know who you’re dealing with?” His eyes are so blue this close. So impossibly blue. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”
He doesn’t move back. Doesn’t give me space.
Just keeps me trapped there against the bookshelf while he tears down every wall between us.
“I’m obsessive,” he says. “When I want something, I don’t stop until I have it. And I want you.”
My throat has gone dry.
“I’m possessive.” His voice drops lower. “I won’t share. I won’t tolerate another man looking at you the way I look at you.”
This is not what I expected.
Where’s the smooth duke from the calligraphy workshop? Where’s the man who made everything feel like a game?
This Veil is different.
Fierce.
Raw.
Real.
“I’m demanding,” he continues. “I’ll want all of you. Your time. Your attention. Your thoughts. I won’t let you hide from me or pretend you don’t feel what I know you feel.”
“I’m jealous.” His jaw clenches. “Irrationally so. I watched Lord Chesterton touch your arm at the exhibition last week and I wanted to break something.”
Wait.
Lord Chesterton touched my arm?
I don’t even remember that.
But he does.
“I’m not easy, Evianne. I’m not the charming prince who’ll make everything simple and comfortable. I’ll push you. Challenge you. Drive you absolutely mad.”
My hands are shaking.
“But—” His forehead nearly touches mine. “I’ll give you everything in return. My time. My attention. My loyalty. Every part of me, the good and the bad and the difficult. It’s all yours if you’ll have it.”
I’m trembling now, pressed against the bookshelf with nowhere to run, and he’s looking at me like I’m the only person in the room. In the house. In the world.
“So no more hiding,” he says. “No more five a.m. schedule rearranging. No more pretending you’re fine when you’re terrified.”
“I don’t—” My voice cracks. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“Do what?”
“Be someone who gets chosen.”
The words slip out before I can stop them, and something flashes in his eyes.
Pain.
Not for himself.
For me.
“You think,” he says slowly, “that you don’t get chosen?”
I nod, not trusting my voice, because if I try to explain it he’ll hear the whole pathetic truth. That I’ve spent my whole life being careful and quiet and invisible because that felt safer than wanting something and being told I wasn’t enough.
“Evianne.” He shifts, one hand leaving the bookshelf to cup my face. “I’ve been watching you since the moment you stepped out of that car. You shook my hand like I was a colleague instead of a title. You looked at me like I was furniture, and I have never in my life been so fascinated by being ignored.”
His thumb strokes my cheek, and the touch is so gentle it makes my chest ache.
“You organized a flawless exhibition in less than a week. You handled the calligraphy ambush with more grace than I had any right to expect. And then you ran across a frozen lake and dove into water that could have killed you for a child you’d never met.” His voice has gone rough. “Without hesitating. Without calculating. Without a single thought for yourself.”
He’s close enough now that I can see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes, the faint shadow along his jaw, the way his pupils have blown wide.
“You’re the opposite of invisible,” he murmurs. “You’re blinding. And the fact that you don’t know it only makes it worse.”
Don’t cry, Evianne. Don’t you dare cry while a duke is holding your face and saying the most beautiful things anyone has ever said to you.
“But I need to know one thing,” he says.
“What?”
“Are you willing to let me in?”
The question hangs between us.
He’s giving me a choice. An out. I could say no. I could tell him this is too much, too fast, too terrifying. I could push past him and walk out of this library and he’d let me go.
But.
I don’t want to.
I’m tired of running. Tired of hiding. Tired of making myself small and invisible and safe.
And so I hear myself say shakily, “Y-Yes.”