some tender words of his own. Perhaps they could have progressed amicably toward an arrangement from there.
She hadn’t. She had locked her own heart down tight, preparing herself for rejection and yes, even engineering it so she could walk away wounded yet righteous.
“I’ve always wanted children,” she had reminded him, nearly trembling she was holding herself so tightly together as she gave the greatest shake of dice in her life. “You said when I was ready to start a family, you would let me go. Are you going to keep your word?”
“Of course.”
Two words. Bam, bam.
Why couldn’t he have at least said he was fond of her in that moment? Why hadn’t he said he would miss her? Or acted in some small way like he didn’t want her to go? He had spent all the time they’d been together making her think he felt something, even if it was just affection. He was terribly protective of her and often expressed admiration at how hard she worked and what she accomplished. Maybe he didn’t laugh outright at all her jokes, sometimes he even gave her a look that scolded her for crossing a line, but he invariably smirked. He appreciated her snark, whether it was witty or facetious.
Why else would she feel so much for him if he didn’t at least appear to care for her, too? She wasn’t a self-destructive idiot.
Was she?
Did he really feel nothing? From the moment he had walked in here, he hadn’t betrayed one iota of pleasure in seeing her again. Just anger and resentment.
You want to change things, he had accused her that day.
She hadn’t, she really hadn’t. Things had changed all by themselves. Cells had split.
Then she and Henri had.
Her eyes welled as she recognized that nothing had changed between then and now. Absence hadn’t made his heart grow fonder. He still felt nothing.
Despair accosted her afresh.
Don’t be stupid, she told herself as the pressure built behind her eyes and in her throat. She only cried late in the night, when she lay awake in the dark, missing him, curled around their babies, freezing to death because his side of the bed was empty.
During the day, she was pragmatic and confident.
Which had been easy when she’d been convinced she would hold her position and stay right here in this room.
How would she protect her heart if she was living with him again, seeing him every day?
The pressure behind her eyes built as she contemplated how hard this was going to be. Her breaths were already coming in shaky jags of panic.
She told herself to quit being so silly, but her hand pulled a tissue from the box, then kept grabbing a string of them as she felt her world crumbling around her. The agony of not having his love rose, too much for one or two measly tissues. It was a freight train bearing down on her, filling her throat with a wail of agony that she held her breath against releasing.
She didn’t want to love him. It was too big, too hard. It hurt too much.
She buried her face in the cloud of tissues, but this swell of emotion wouldn’t be stemmed. Her whole body became wracked by anguish. She had tried to keep everything together and was falling apart. Everything was splitting and rending. She gasped for a breath and it was a ragged sob.
“Cinnia.”
His voice, so gentle, so tender, was the last straw. How did he do that? How did he sound like he cared when he didn’t?
Her heart broke open and she started to buckle forward, knees giving way under a keening moan.
Strong arms caught her, gathering her, muscles flexing as he picked her up, breath rushing out with the effort. She gave his shoulder a knock with her closed fist, hating him for being virile and powerful when she was fat and weak and falling apart.
He laid her on the bed, coming down alongside her, gathering her into his chest and pressing his lips against her brow, murmuring in French.
She tried to stop crying and listen and wound up wailing, “I don’t understand you!” She didn’t mean because he was speaking French, but because he was being so nice.
“I’m telling you not to be afraid, chérie. I shouldn’t have scared you, saying those things about being a target. You’re safe. I promise I will keep you and the babies safe.”
He had it all wrong, but she was so shaken to be held by him, so relieved, she surrendered to emotion and let the pain of these weeks without him release.
He continued to stroke her hair and murmur reassurances. She knew he had probably done this with Trella. Henri had spent fifteen years trying to help his sister recover from something that never should have happened. It was no wonder he drew such a thick line around himself and his family, holding everyone else at a distance.
But even though he begrudged Cinnia for daring to get pregnant, here he was, making promises, letting her burrow into his warmth. It was sweet and right and she cried all the harder.
Bastard. How dare he keep this good, generous heart of his out of her reach?
“Shh. Calm yourself, chérie.”
“I don’t think I can do this,” she said, feeling pitiful as she admitted it.
He misunderstood her again. “It’s not all on you, Cinnia. You can trust me.” He rubbed her back and smoothed his lips against her brow. “I’m here now.”
“But you don’t want to be.” That was the crux of the matter.
He held his mouth against her forehead for a long moment, then sighed a warm breath against her hairline.
“You’re fair to berate me for that.”
She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. Despair rose afresh and she started to roll away.
He tightened his arms, keeping her against his warmth.
“It was painful enough that the kidnapping happened,” he said in a low voice that sounded like it barely scraped through a dry throat. “It was frightening enough to live with the knowledge that we’re not impervious. But then I became the one responsible for standing watch. Of course I will always look after my mother and sisters, but I never wanted to take on a wife and child. A child, Cinnia. If you knew what my parents looked like when Trella was missing.”
She swallowed, shocked out of her desolation. He never talked about the kidnapping.
“I was in agony. My mother… It was inhuman what they did to her by taking her daughter. And what they did to Trella? I have never wanted to bring the potential for more suffering into my life by having children. That sounds cowardly, I know, but I couldn’t volunteer for it.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, wilting in helplessness, voice nothing but a rasp as she realized he would never forgive her.
“Non,” he insisted. “You are not sorry. Neither am I. I’m not.” He cupped her face,
