Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

She’d been thinking of herself, of her choice to sell her body, because at one point it had been a choice. His words hinted at things that were far, far worse.

“You can’t change what you’ve done,” she said. “You can only accept responsibility and move forward.” Her hand tightened on his. “You do not strike me as a coward, Thirty-seven.”

She almost thought she saw his grim mouth curve at the name. “I am everything despicable,” he said flatly, his voice weak. “If you knew what I’d done you would agree.”

“Tell me, then. And I will tell you honestly if death is what you deserve. There are a great many men here who are fighting to survive. My time could be better spent with them.”

“Go then. I told you to.”

“Tell me,” she repeated. And he did.

In fact, that had been the last time she could remember even coming close to tears. He made his confession in a rough whisper, holding her hand in the darkness, and while he talked he held off death. He talked for hours, alone in the darkness with her, and when he was done the sun was coming up, a faint glow coming in the windows set high in the walls, and he had made it through the night.

Death had left him—he seemed as if a huge weight had left him as well, and his eyes were clearer when he looked up at her. “You’re a harpy, you know,” he said, his voice stronger. “What’s a man to do to get a little peace in this world?”

“Not die,” she replied flatly, hiding her emotions.

He had surveyed her, considering. “I will make a bargain with you. I won’t die today. Come back tonight and convince me to last another day.”

“Perhaps,” she said, planning on doing ju

st that. She stood up. The day was beginning, and she needed to return to Melisande’s household to see what needed to be done. Whether he lived or died, she would still be back.

“And one more thing. Give me something to live for?”

She eyed him warily. “What is that?”

“Kiss me, sister.”

She’d frozen. “I told you, I’m not a sister. And I’m not someone who kisses strange men.” She wasn’t someone who kissed any man. The men who had bought her favors hadn’t been interested in kisses—to them paying money had precluded the need for kisses, or kindness, or tenderness. The dismal, unlikely truth was that she had never kissed anyone.

“I’m not a strange man. You know me better than anyone in this world.”

She could sense rather than see the wariness in him. He was testing her—his injuries, the terrible things he’d told her should have made most women recoil in horror.

If she hesitated, she wouldn’t do it, and she knew he would be dead when she arrived that night. Leaning over, she cupped his bandaged face gently in her hands and pressed her mouth to his.

His lips were cracked and dry from fever, and when she drew back he’d closed his eyes, tension leaving his body. There was even the faintest trace of a smile on his mouth. “Tonight, Harpy,” he’d said.

She’d wondered then whether she’d misjudged things. Whether he’d wanted the kiss as a last blessing on earth, and she half-expected that there’d be a new soul in the Styx when she arrived the next night. She was right.

The man lying in the alcove was a stranger, one whose amputation had turned septic, who’d been secured to the bed with straps to keep him from tossing himself onto the floor. She stood at the entrance, her eyes barely seeing the poor man, as grief filled her heart.

“Don’t waste your time with him, Emma,” Sister had said as she pushed past her into the little room. “Thirty-seven’s been asking for you.”

She’d managed to compose herself by the time she found him at the far end of the row of beds, a rough curtain shielding him from the others. “You decided to delay your departure, I see,” she said caustically from the foot of his narrow bed.

His smile was faint but clear. “My own harpy! I’m counting on your torment to keep me alive.”

“I’m more than happy to oblige.” She sank down on the chair beside him. And so had begun almost two weeks, where he had slowly improved, where each night he had demanded a kiss, insisting he wouldn’t be alive when she returned if she didn’t give him one.

She knew it was hogwash, just as she knew he didn’t belong in the rough wards of St. Martin’s Military Hospital. He had the voice of a gentleman, and she had yet to meet anyone who could falsify those tones. She had kissed him anyway, the soft brush of her mouth against his—harmless, innocent. Until the last night, when the kiss became something quite different.

He’d grown stronger, he’d been sitting up in bed, and she’d moved her chair closer, night by night. For some reason she continued to hold his hand—the human touch kept him tethered to this earth, she thought, never realizing it kept her tethered to him. Until the last night, or early morning, when she rose to leave him, and leaned over to give him her chaste, affectionate kiss.

Instead he’d caught her arm, tugging her off balance, and deftly managed to slip his hand behind her head to hold her in place while he deepened the kiss, pushing her mouth open with his, using his tongue.

She’d been too shocked to react, had simply let his kiss her, long and slow and hard, so thoroughly she felt. . . she felt. . .