And before that—the trauma I endured.
Enough trauma to last a lifetime, and I was sick of carrying it.
Benedict squeezes me tighter, rubbing my back. My heart cracks in half. I didn’t expect to react this way—didn’t expect for one simple move to bring back the memories, remind me of who was last to claim my body. No. Not just claim my body, but debase my body and soul.Defile.
When my crying slows, Benedict hands me a handkerchief. I stare at it.
“Who carries these anymore?”
He pulls away, shrugging. “I kept one on me every day, and it became habit.”
He doesn’t say the rest of it—doesn’t need to. I look at him, and his pupils are two deep pools of emotion, something swirling behind them and making my chest ache.
“Thank you.” I smile, wiping my eyes and nose. I set it on the table, and then I lift my hands to remove the crown. “This should go back to its rightful place before I break it.”
His eyes darken ever so slightly when I remove it, shaking my hair out.
“What?” I ask, and then his tongue plays with the inside of his cheek as he smirks and looks away. My breathing hitches.
How is he so goddamn beautiful?
“For the record,” he says slowly, “I’ve never been this turned on. You, wearing the crown, before me like that.”
I grin. “It was kind of hot,” I admit, shrugging.
If only my stupid memories didn’t get in the way.
“Well, since we are here, why don’t you look through the archives? See what is pertinent to your class. I can help you.”
I start to respond, but he gets right to work, brushing off what happened, like he expected it. Like I didn’t completely deviate from his fingers in my underwear, his mouth so close to where I needed it. When I look over at him, he’s concentrating on the manuscript spines, trying to find something I can use for my classes.
For me.
He’s doing all of this—forme.
Why am I surprised? He’s never been anything other than completely reliable, giving, kind, helpful, gorgeous…
And even though it’s not easy, I take a deep breath, inhale the history surrounding me, and sink into the sanctity of where I am. Somewhere few even know about.
We each grab a manuscript and sit at the table, and while I look through the old notes, every so often I glance at Benedict. When I do, his eyes meet mine with only warmth, only gratitude. Sitting across from me, he leans his face on his hand as he reads one of the old bibles, getting up only to sort through some of the old weapons—knives with ivory handles, bejeweled swords. I don’t find anything useful to class or to my life—nothing that I can use for my paper, though I’m dying to touch Anne Boleyn’s tattered dress. But that’s not to say what I find isn’t interesting; it’s by far the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.
This will go down as one of the best experiences of my life.
I spend way too much time admiring the jewels and the gowns, disgruntled at how small these women made themselves with boned corsets and laced girdles. It doesn’t seem fair that the men were allowed—extolled, even—when they got fat.
By the time we finish sorting through everything, it’s half past two and my stomach is about to eat itself. Benedict and I exit the archival room and find Lucas at the table with a computer. He smiles and hops up, and we all enjoy a quick tea and biscuit break. I eat about nine cookies too many, so by the time we trek a few blocks south to Benedict’s favorite Thai restaurant, I am dizzy from the sugar and the scorching heat.
I excuse myself to the bathroom and tell Benedict to order whatever he wants. I am so ravenous at this point that I don’t care. As long as it’s food, I will consume it. Which is why, as I’m exiting the fancy bathroom, I don’t notice the man washing up at the communal sink. I can only think of noodles and curry, and I hardly hear him when he whispers my name.
“Eve?”
The sound of my old name instantly turns my blood cold, and the low light makes it nearly impossible to recognize him. Blond hair, blue eyes, perfect suit, Rolex. I can’t remember his name, or maybe I never knew it. A lot of the men never gave me their names, and if they did, I always assumed it wasn’t real. Just like Eve Winters wasn’t real. It was a silly play on my real name, something Auguste enjoyed devising in order to humiliate me.
I keep my expression neutral. I vowed never to show a man fear again.
I will not be afraid.
He will not touch me.
