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)
“And then you ran across that ice.” His voice drops lower. “And dove into water that could have killed you. For a child you’d never met. Without a single moment of hesitation.”
He’s looking at me the way he looked at the first edition Pride and Prejudice in the study. Like he’s holding something rare. Something he didn’t expect to find.
“I watched you disappear under that ice, and I have never been more terrified in my life. Not since my father died.” He says this simply, factually, like it costs him nothing, but I can see his hands gripping his knees, knuckles white. “And in that moment, every wall I’ve spent fifteen years building came down. All of it. Gone.”
Don’t cry, Evianne. Don’t you dare cry.
“I’m in love with you.”
The words land in the quiet room like a stone dropped into still water.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
The heart monitor beeps wildly, and honestly, at this point, I wish someone would just unplug the stupid thing.
Did he just—
Did I hit my head?
Am I hallucinating from hypothermia?
“I—” I start, but nothing else comes out because my brain has completely short-circuited.
“I know the timing is insane,” he continues, and his voice is still that terrifying, unshakable steady. “I know you’ve been avoiding me for a reason. I know you’re dealing with things I don’t fully understand. And I know that sitting in a hospital room telling a woman who nearly drowned six hours ago that I’m in love with her is not my most strategic move.”
A sound escapes me. Half laugh, half something else.
“But I’m done being strategic.” He leans forward. “I’m done playing games. I’m done pretending I don’t feel what I feel because my pride won’t let me admit it.”
I can’t breathe.
Actually cannot breathe.
My lungs have forgotten how to function, and the heart monitor is making a spectacle of itself, and he’s sitting there saying these things like he has every right to say them, like he has any right to sit there calmly dismantling my entire carefully constructed avoidance strategy while I’m lying in a hospital bed in a gown that ties in the back.
“Veil, I—”
“Don’t answer now.” He stands abruptly. “You’re exhausted. You nearly died. This is the worst possible time for this conversation, and I know that.”
“Then why—”
“Because I sat in that chair for six hours watching your heart monitor and swearing to myself that if you woke up, I wouldn’t waste another day being too proud to tell you the truth.” His eyes hold mine. “You’re awake. So I’m telling you.”
I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again.
Nothing comes out.
“Sleep,” he says, and it’s not a request. “We’ll talk when you’re stronger.”
He’s heading toward the door.
He’s actually heading toward the door.
He just told me he’s in love with me and now he’s leaving, like he just delivered a quarterly report and not a declaration that has fundamentally altered the chemical composition of my brain.
“You can’t just say that and leave,” I manage.
He pauses at the door. Looks back at me with those devastating blue eyes.
“I just did.”
And then he’s gone.
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m left staring at it, my heart hammering so hard the monitor sounds like a drumroll, and I press my hands against my burning face because the Duke of Veilcourt just told me he’s in love with me.
He loves me.
The Duke of Veilcourt.
Loves.
Me.
The woman who has spent five days strategically rearranging her schedule to avoid him. Who still has an engagement ring in her coat pocket. Who hasn’t called her cheating fiancé. Who jumped into a frozen lake without thinking and nearly died and is now lying in a hospital bed having a complete emotional breakdown because a man she’s known for barely two weeks just said the most terrifying, wonderful, impossible thing anyone has ever said to her.
How did this become my life?
The door opens again.
I look up, expecting Veil, expecting him to come back and take it back or explain that the hypothermia affected his brain too or tell me he was joking—
But it’s Lady Hampton who steps in, her expression gentle and knowing and slightly amused.
She looks at me. Looks at the heart monitor, which is still broadcasting my emotional state to anyone within earshot. Looks back at me.
And then she signs, ‘My son doesn’t say things he doesn’t mean.’
I stare at her. At this woman who held my hand on a plane while I cried over another man. Who’s shown me nothing but kindness since the moment I met her. Who keeps looking at me with that Mona Lisa smile like she knows something I don’t.
‘I don’t—’ My hands are shaking so badly I can barely form the signs. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
Lady Hampton sits down in the chair Veil just emptied and takes my hand. Her grip is warm and steady, and she doesn’t sign anything else. Just holds on.