"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Banks, but I'm exhausted. The doctor said I need rest." She ducked under my arm, putting the coffee table between us as she stood. Despite her ordeal, she looked regal even in her torn dress and bare feet. "We can discuss security protocols tomorrow."
"Evangeline—" I started, using her name instead of her title, desperate to reach the woman beneath the princess.
She paused, and for a moment, the mask slipped again. I saw longing, fear, and something that looked dangerously like love, but then it was gone.
"Goodnight, Mr. Banks."
"This isn't over," I said as she turned toward her bedroom. "Whatever you're hiding—whoever this Kozlov is—I will find out."
She paused at her bedroom door, her hand on the handle. For a moment, neither of us moved. The air between us felt charged, heavy with everything we weren't saying.
"Some secrets aren't yours to uncover, Mr. Banks," she said finally, but her voice lacked conviction.
"They are when they put your life at risk." I took a step toward her, then another, until I was close enough to see the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "And when they're destroying the woman I?—"
I caught myself before the words could escape, but we both heard them hanging in the air, anyway.
Her hand trembled on the handle of the door. "James, please. Don't."
"Don't what?" I moved closer, close enough that she'd have to turn the handle and flee or face me.
"Don't care that you nearly died tonight? Don't care that you're carrying something that's eating you alive?"
She turned, with her back against the door, with nowhere to run. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears, and the sight of them made my chest tight.
"Don't make this harder than it already is," she whispered.
"What's hard about trusting me?" I braced one hand against the door beside her head, leaning down until our faces were inches apart. "What's hard about letting me help you?"
"Ev-eryth-ing." The word came out broken, desperate. "You don't understand. If you knew—if anyone knew?—"
"Try me," I said roughly. "Tell me what's so terrible that you'd rather face it alone than trust the man who would die to protect you."
Her breath caught, and for a moment I thought she might break. Her hand rested against my chest, over my heart, and I could feel it hammering beneath her palm.
"I can't," she said, but her body was saying something else entirely. She was leaning toward me, her face tilted and lips parted.
"You can," I murmured, my free hand coming up to cup her face. "Whatever it is, we'll face it together."
For one perfect, terrible moment, I thought she would kiss me. Her eyes dropped to my mouth, and I could feel the pull of the physical force between us. But then something shuttered in her expression, and she turned away.
"No," she said, her voice stronger now. "Some battles have to be fought alone."
She reached behind her for the door handle, but I didn't step back. Couldn't step back.
"Not this one," I said fiercely. "Not when someone's hunting you. Not when they know your secrets and are using them as weapons."
She looked up at me then, and the pain in her eyes nearly brought me to my knees.
"What if the weapon is the truth itself, James? What if some secrets are too ugly to survive the light?"
Before I could answer, she turned the handle and slipped inside, leaving me standing in the hallway with my hand still pressed against her door.
I stayed there for a long moment, listening to the silence from her room, fighting the urge to follow her inside and demand answers. Or simply to hold her until whatever demons were chasing her finally let her rest.
Instead, I pressed my forehead against the cool wood and whispered, ‘Nothing could be ugly enough to make me stop caring about you’.
I didn't know if she heard me. But her door closed with a quiet click that somehow held more finality than if she'd slammed it.
