“King,” she whispered.
He shook his head at his name. “I want you quite desperately, Sophie.”
Her heart stopped at the words. “You do?”
He looked up at her, handsome and devastating. “I do,” he said. “I’ve wanted you from the start, you know. From the moment I nearly hit you in the head with a boot.”
She smiled, small and sad. “No, you didn’t.”
He tilted his head. “Maybe not just then. But definitely by the time I found you drinking with Warnick in the stables.”
“In your footman’s livery?”
“Ah,” he said. “So you admit he is my footman.”
“Never.” She laughed, loving the feel of him. Loving the look of him.
Loving him.
She took a deep breath. “King, what—”
“She didn’t love me,” he said softly.
Her brow furrowed. “Who?”
“Lorna. She wanted the title and nothing else.”
She couldn’t believe it, not after the way he’d spoken about her. “How do you know that?”
“Because I do.” He released her and stood putting distance between them. “The line ends with me,” he whispered, and she ached at the words even as he continued. “It was so much more than revenge. It was penance. I swore off marriage because I couldn’t bear the thought of betraying the girl I’d once loved.” Sophie ached at the words, tears threatening as he continued, devastating betrayal in his tone. “But now . . . she wanted to marry me for money. For title. For security. She lied to me.”
He turned away from Sophie, making his way to the labyrinth’s path. He turned back before he entered the maze and looked at her for a long while, anger and frustration and disappointment in his gaze. “I thought she was the only person who had ever wanted me for me. And now I know the truth. She wanted me for my title and my fortune. Not for me. There’s never been anyone who wanted me.”
Sophie did not hesitate, a desperate need for him to hear the truth propelling her closer to him. “That’s not true.” She wanted him. Desperately.
He understood, his gaze turning predatorial. He, the hunter. She, the prey. And then he said, “I can’t love you.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek as she nodded. “I know.”
“I don’t want you to leave. I want you to stay here. I want to keep you here, at the center of this labyrinth. Even though it’s the worst possible thing I can think to do to you.”
“I don’t think I can survive your betrayal.”
He came to her then, quick and purposeful, lifting her face to his, staring deep into her eyes. “I don’t want you to go,” he said. “I want you to stay.”
“And what happens if I do? What is my life if I stay?” Her throat ached with the words. Because she knew the answer. She knew he’d never be able to give her what she wanted. What she’d always wanted and somehow had never realized she wanted.
He would never love her. He would never marry her. They would never have children, despite her ability to see them quite clearly, little dark-haired cherubs, with his beautiful green eyes and dimples that showed when they smiled.
He didn’t ask her what she saw. What she wanted. He already knew. “Sophie . . .” he started, and she heard the knowledge. Heard the denial. She didn’t want to hear the words.
Instead, she reached for him, her fingers trailing down his cheek, drawing him closer to her. “Tomorrow,” she whispered, so close to his lips that it felt as though he had spoken instead. “What if we return to the world tomorrow?”
“Yes,” he replied, the word somehow a vow and a prayer and a curse all at once. “Yes,” he said again. “Tomorrow.”
And then he lifted her in his arms and carried her back to the fountain.
And she knew, this place, this man—he would always be home.
Chapter 18
LYNE LABYRINTH LOVERS!
He knew it was a mistake, that he was the worst kind of scoundrel, taking what she offered. He didn’t deserve her. And she deserved infinitely better.
But the knowledge didn’t stop him.
Instead, it pushed him forward, the knowing that he shouldn’t touch her. The wanting her in spite of his keen awareness that he couldn’t have her. His path had been set out for him, a long, straight road without room for diversion. No place for the emotions she tempted, no place for the beauty she brought with her, for the promises she made.
She called to him from beyond his labyrinth, tempting him with the promise of something more, making him forget—almost—what his life was to be.
What is my life if I stay?
The question had been rhetorical when she’d asked it; she’d known the truth, that he couldn’t give her what she wished.
He couldn’t give her love.
And Sophie would want love. She’d want it pure and unfettered, given freely, along with all its trappings. She’d want the marriage and children and happiness and promise that came with it.
He could see it, the life she wanted. The line of little girls, blue-eyed and brown-haired, in love with books and strawberry tarts. For a moment, he imagined them smiling at him the way their mother did, filled with happiness and hope.
For a moment, he let himself believe he might be able to give it to her.
But she would want love, and he would never be able to give it.
He didn’t have it to give anymore. And those children, they would never be his.
He set her down on the edge of the fountain, coming to his knees, as though she was Ariadne and he the Minotaur, worshipping at her feet, adoring her even as he knew she could not survive in the labyrinth, and he could not survive beyond it.