Page 28 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

She blinked, caught off guard by the question. “I… I do.”

She stared at the tin in his hand, a sense of familiarity nagging at her.

The tin… Her gaze snapped to his, understanding dawning. “It was you.”

His head tilted, amusement flickering in his expression. “Me?”

“You left the baskets of food,” she said, the words falling from her lips before she could stop them. “After my father died. The same tin of sweets was in one of the baskets you left on my stoop.”

For a moment, Rhys said nothing, his gaze steady and unreadable. “I have never liked the taste of grief.” He paused. “After meeting you, I found that I disliked the thought of you swallowing your tears, alone in that house.”

The words sent a flush rising to her cheeks, and she looked away, suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of his attention.

Then the implication of what he said dawned.

I have never liked the taste of grief. That suggested he had known grief and loss, more than once.

She wanted to ask, to know, to ease his burden by sharing it.

And that made no sense. He was practically a stranger to her.

Except…he wasn’t. Not anymore. She saw him every day.

They spoke of things that mattered on occasion, but mostly things that did not: whether the chimneys drew properly after the last storm; whether a torn folio binding could be mended with paste or if it required new thread.

Once, he told her of his favorite place to walk, a half-wild orchard at the edge of the grounds.

Another time, he lingered to ask what she read, his tone mild, his questions pointed, as if he sought not only the title but her thoughts upon it.

And in the midst of such small exchanges, the distance between them had thinned, thread by thread, until she thought she might touch the shape of him beneath his mask.

When she finally glanced back at him, his expression had softened, the sharp edges of his face tempered by something gentler.

“Mr. Caradoc?—”

“Call me Rhys,” he said quietly. The words hung in the air, intimate and improper.

Isabella hesitated, her breath catching. In her thoughts, she already called him by his given name. But to do so aloud? “That would be inappropriate.”

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. “And yet, here we are. Isabella.”

She had not invited him to make use of her given name. Yet, the sound of it, uttered in his low, masculine voice?—

The air between them crackled, charged with something unspeakable. Isabella’s pulse thrummed beneath her skin as she struggled to find her footing, to steady herself in the face of his relentless presence.

Her teeth gnawed at her lower lip. And then, she whispered, “Rhys.”

He went very still, his eyes fathomless, sliding to her mouth, focused there. He looked away first, as if catching himself, and opened the tin he held, then offered it to her, revealing pale yellow lozenges dusted with fine sugar. “Would you like one?”

Hesitating only a moment, Isabella plucked a lozenge from the tin. The taste of lemon burst bright, a mingling of citrus and sweet. Her tongue darted out, catching the dusting of sugar that clung to her lower lip.

His eyes darkened as he stared at her mouth; a muscle flexed in his jaw.

Her breath locked. Her pulse raced. The way he looked at her?—

“May I?” he asked, his voice rough.

Confused, she stared at him then nodded.

His hand lifted, hesitated, then he brushed the pad of his thumb across her lower lip.

“Sugar,” he murmured.

She froze, entranced by the way he looked at her, as though he were hungry and she a morsel to be devoured.

With his gaze locked on hers, he leaned in, slowly, so slowly.

Her breath hitched but she did not step away.

Her world narrowed to the inch of air between them.

Heat gathered in the pit of her belly, low and bright, a tremor skimming her skin, her blood thrumming in her veins.

Her fingers curled into her skirt as she fought the need to lean in, to close that paltry space that separated them.

A low sound escaped her, a plea, and then his mouth was on hers, his lips pressed to her own, a brief, restrained touch, lemon sweet.

It was not enough. She yearned for more. She rose to the kiss, untutored but certain.

His mouth answered hers, once, twice, then the kiss deepened, stealing her thoughts, her will. The room fell away. There were only his hands steady at her arms and the velvet slide of his lips on hers.

Then, as if something in him caught and locked, he pulled back, breath unsteady, the inches between them too distant for her liking. His thumb traced the line of her jaw.

“Isabella,” he said, the sound rough as though he offered her name as both warning and apology.

A draft nosed through the library, though no window stood open. Somewhere on the shelves, a book fell against another with a soft thud. His gaze flicked past her shoulder and his expression shifted, all softness gone.

“This is…ill-advised.” His voice was steady, smooth as he stepped away, putting distance between them as if it were a kind of shield. “You are in my house, under my protection. I must honor that.” He paused. “Forgive me.”

She wanted to tell him that the only apology he need make was for ending the kiss, but she could not trust her voice.

He took a step back, then another, leaving her feeling cold and somehow bereft. He settled his composure around himself like a cloak, the gentleman once more.

“If you require anything,” he said softly, his gaze lingering a heartbeat too long on her lips before lifting to her eyes, “ring for Mrs. Abernathy.”

He turned. At the threshold, he paused. Her heart stuttered as she waited for him to say something true, something honest, something…to leave her feeling less alone.

He did not. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving her with the taste of him still on her tongue.

Rhys closed the library door and stood with his palm pressed to the paneled wall until the ache in his leg outshouted the urge to go back. Not only because being near her made the prickles of sound drop to a hush. And not only because he wanted her. The urge to return was not desire’s work alone.

He had wanted women before. He knew the shape and swell of appetite and how easily a man could mistake hunger for more in that moment.

This was…different. He liked her. Liked her mind, the questions she asked, and the way she ordered chaos without complaint.

Liked her steadiness—no simpering, no artifice.

Liked her stubborn dignity, even when there was mud on her hem and grief clogging her throat. He respected her.

Respect sharpened the danger.

He had left Barrett’s letters where a curious mind would find them, the drawer left slightly askew.

A snare baited with truth. He had known the words written by her father would show her only what he had assured her was the basis of their correspondence.

What she read in those letters would make his own word worth something to her.

He had burned the letters that did not support the narrative he wove, the angry letters refusing him access to Barrett’s grimoires. Refusing him access to Barrett’s daughter.

On his desk in the library, the small box waited.

He had left it there knowing she would look inside that, too, and the contents would tell her what she needed to know when the time was right, would lure her along the path he had set for her.

A snare baited with truth was no less a trap for being honest.

He loathed himself for laying such snares, but he would not falter. The faces of the lost were etched in his mind, in his heart. He would not fail them in death as he had in life.