Page 16 of Pretending to Love a Lyon (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

G raham sat beside Alston until midnight, watching his chest rise and fall. Amelia arrived, and he bid her goodnight and retired to his own room. There was nothing more to say—nothing he could say—after that kiss in the hall. His composure was shattered. He thought he could teach her something with a kiss? That was his idea? He didn’t know now. He couldn’t remember much that had happened before that kiss, except that they’d been arguing. She was so sad and angry—that he understood. Things were so volatile between them, but then they kissed... it was not an explosion, it was a revelation. Her taste, her scent, the way her mouth and body pressed to his.

Kissing her was far gentler than any of their other interactions. Peaceful. Like the coming of dawn after a long night. Quiet in its intensity. Silent like a starry sky, yet overwhelming by its vastness. That kiss had been so much more than a kiss, and he wished he’d never done it. This wasn’t regret—he didn’t feel disgusted or wrong because of the kiss. He felt altered.

She wouldn’t understand the gravity of their kiss, and for that, he was thankful. She could never know he felt this way. He wasn’t even certain if the kiss would fix the issue of their obvious incompatibility. He was not a person who hid behind a facade. More than anything else, that was what truly made this so difficult for him. He wasn’t accustomed to lying. That was part of the reason he didn’t like cards. He couldn’t bluff. He was honest to a fault, as Amelia would say.

Which meant the situation she’d put them in was likely to fall apart, revealing everything, ruining everything they wanted to protect, including Alston’s recovery, if this could be called a recovery.

Graham pictured Alston’s face. He was still pale, but peaceful, as if he were sleeping the most divine of sleeps and would wake up refreshed. But something fearful in Graham told him he wouldn’t wake up. They would battle for time, but it was time that would ultimately kill him.

He’d spoken to a student of medicine earlier at the Den, asking questions as carefully as possible to better understand what might be happening in Alston’s body. Dr. Bradley had said if Alston’s blood would clot sufficiently, it might keep him from bleeding out. But anything could change, and at any moment.

The young student confirmed that information. Given the right circumstances, a small enough vessel injury, the blood would bind together and seal the wound, but it was fragile. Slight movement could dislodge the clot, and the bleeding would start all over again.

But now, as he thought of Alston, he wondered. How big was his injury inside him and how long would the clot hold before the dam broke? How long did he have left with his best friend?

Just four years ago, Graham had met Alston when he’d found him squaring up against three other men, determined to bloody some noses rather than give up his valuables, but instead, he was losing quickly. Graham had come to his rescue. Afterward, they’d gone to the Lyon’s Den to celebrate their win over some good whisky, and a friendship had formed. Alston had been so young. So wretchedly daring. He’d thought he was invincible. But the more Graham had learned about Alston’s life, the more his respect for the young man grew. Alston had inherited at the age of twelve after his father’s untimely death and had learned very quickly how to manage the estates in his care, the people on those estates, his tenants, not to mention his twin sister. And he’d done it all with the often-indifferent assistance of his guardian uncle.

Graham’s throat tightened. “Please live,” he begged into the silence of his own bedchamber. “We need you.”

Without Alston, Graham didn’t know what to do with Amelia. She drove him to distraction, made him do reckless things, agree to terrible ideas. He had known acting as her protector in Alston’s stead wasn’t going to be easy, but he’d never imagined things would end up like this. A scandalous mess. A fuse lit and racing toward a barrel of powder that would destroy everything. Only Alston, alive and well, could help them out of this mess.

He couldn’t trust himself anymore, not where Amelia was concerned. He’d lost control—if he ever truly had it. He was a fool to think anything they’d concocted together would work. He should have pushed harder to call for Alston’s man of business and left the pieces to fall where they may.

Graham thought for a moment about betraying Amelia and summoning Alston’s man of business himself. They would have to reveal Alston’s injury and present state. And afterward, Graham would bear the brunt of her wrath.

Graham rubbed his hands over his face. He wouldn’t be sleeping tonight, but he undressed anyway, sliding into bed naked and dousing the candle at his bedside. He closed his eyes, and it wasn’t Alston who filled his mind, but Amelia. Her lips, her breasts, and that bloody noise she’d made. His blood turned hot, and his cock became hard. He sat up and punched his pillow, throwing himself back down and willing himself to sleep. But thoughts of her persisted, stubborn even in his fantasies. She taunted him.

After an hour of tossing and turning and a cock that would soften, only to harden again as soon as he closed his eyes, he surrendered. He took himself in hand, stroking himself with thoughts of Amelia. He imagined her scent, her lips, her pert nipples that he would take in his mouth, and the moans he’d draw from deep within her. He fantasized about the way she’d cry out his name as he took her hard against a wall and she came with him deep inside her. He imagined in great detail everything he could never do or let live in his thoughts in the light of day.

Amelia. His mind created for him a version of her that wanted him, craved him, and begged for his touch.

He groaned through his release as he came into his hand and then cleaned himself up. He now felt a sense of calm, but he knew it wouldn’t last long. As the clock chimed three, he closed his eyes, and this time he could sleep.