“Why?” she demanded, showing a surprising bit of stubbornness. Or maybe he ought not be surprised. She’d run from him to protect him, Thomas, Maximilian, and Esther after all.
“Because I dunnae wish to,” he said. It was not entirely a lie. He didn’t wish to because when someone was inside your heart, when they put a piece of themselves in you, they left a hole of pain when they disappointed you and left you. He never wanted to feel that again.
“Nae even to make my gift work properly?” she flung out, her words lashing with their repressed hurt.
“Christ, Ada,” he said, almost trembling with the need to spill his secret, which would reveal he was weak and fearful. Warriors could not be those things. “I dunnae give a damn anymore if yer gift works properly or nae.” That was the God’s honest truth. One way or another, he’d save his brother and help keep the king on the throne.
“Then ye simply dunnae think ye could care for me in that way?”
The hurt in her words, the brokenness, was worse than any anger she could have slung at him. He turned from her, shoved back her gown, opening the makeshift door to escape all the emotions boiling inside him. But she grabbed him by the arm and asked, “How can we live together and nae ever become close? Will ye bed me coldly? Expect bairns?”
Her questions infuriated him, but the ire was solely directed at himself. He’d not thought things through. He could never bed her without emotion. It would be impossible. He swung his body around toward her, surprised at how close she was. Her warm breath hit his chest when she exhaled, and every muscle in his body tightened with the wish to pull her into his arms and never let her go.
“Do ye ken what ye are?” he growled, having to curl his hands into fists so he’d not touch her face. “Ye’re a fever.” Her scent tickled his nose, teased him, tormented him. “Ye make me burn and burn. I feel weak from ye. Vulnerable.”
Christ, the truth was escaping him. He had to get away from her and stay away. No touching. No joining. No bairns. No giving and taking of hearts.
“William,” she said, sadness in her voice. The moon slashed across her face and revealed trails of tears making their way down her cheeks. “Whoever hurt ye—”
He jerked back as she reached for him. “I need to be cold to survive,” he ground out. He turned on his heel and stormed away, feeling as though he were trying to outrun the devil at his heels. But what if the demon he was trying to escape was himself? What then?
