Page 30 of Twisted Kings

We eat a quiet dinner, alphabet soup, a portion of kale that Madeline completely ignores, and some dinosaur-shaped nuggets. I glance at the homework on her small writing desk and wonder if I can't make some excuse to her teaching masters. There's no way Maddie, with sleepy eyes and yawning mouth, will get any of that done. She doesn't even ask to see her fatherfor a goodnight before crawling into bed, out like a light minutes later.

My duties discharged for the night; I pick up around her room before turning the lights out so she can sleep until morning. I need to talk to the duke about how overworked she is.

I'm closing her bedroom door when a hand wraps around my shoulder. I jerk and whirl around, surprised.

Lord Benedict stands there, a severe look on his face.

"I'm sorry, my lord, Lady Madeline's only just gone to sleep," I say, voice quiet. He shakes his head. So he's not here for her, then.

"Come with me," he replies and takes my wrist in his, command in the iron grip of his fingers. His touch is warm, firm, and insistent. Butterflies flutter in my stomach. I can't argue, and as he starts to walk, I'm like a kite being dragged behind a child.

There's a dinner on tonight, and the hallway is empty, same with the upper servants' stairs, which he leads me toward. I tense up with the surprise of it. The fact he even knows where the servants go is a surprise to me, and he waits, on one landing, hearing a noise below. He lifts a finger to his lips, eyes glittering in the semi-darkness as he watches me.

I hold my breath.

I can't be caught like this, alone, with him, of all people. I've only been here a short time, and I already know what kind of man he is. Any association with him is a promise of whispers starting up. I stay quiet, and he smirks, knowing why I'm silent and not asking questions of him.

The bottom floor goes quiet, and he pulls me out of the door onto the second floor.

"My library," he says, turning a corner down a long hall. There's a low door to my left, not like the giant double doors that reach from floor to ceiling like on most of the great entertaining rooms on this level, and he opens it. "Inside." He gives me a gentle push on the small of my back and I'm inside, turning to ask himwhat on earthas he shuts the door behind him. The lights come on, and I inhale, my eyes going wide. I walk to the center of the room.

Thick woven rugs of deep red cover the wooden floor, low brown leather couches arranged by the fireplace. There's a desk by the windows where the heavy curtains are drawn closed. That isn't what fully catches my eye, though.

It's not just a gentleman's library. It's an art museum. Tall bookshelves host many well-worn hardback books, and between them are the paintings. Paintings and photographs scattered on the walls of women, all of women— parts of their bodies—

My face heats up, and I stare steadily at him, refusing to look anywhere but right at him. If he brought me here, to this den of intellectual debauchery, to see my reaction, then all he's going to get is my pink cheeks.

"Ever the proper miss, aren't you," he says, voice formal, walking toward me slowly.

"It would be a good idea if you told me what you need to speak to me about," I reply, bracing myself as he comes closer. "I have a lot of work to do before I sleep tonight."

He nods.

"Of course. I wouldn't keep you beyond what you're comfortable with," he murmurs, "it's only that this the most private place I can think to have this conversation beyond my bedroom."

My heart skips a beat or three in my chest, and I exhale.

"I really need to go," I say, and start walking to the door.

"Don't," he says, his voice aching with something I donotwant to dig into, and he holds out a hand in my way, stopping me. I look up at him.

"I've got work," I plead softly, hoping he'll understand that whatever he wants to ask me for, I can't give.

It doesn't even make sense to me. He's a marquis. He could have any one he wanted. But he's here, in this private, quiet corner of Wester Hall, staring at me like he wants to devour me, and he'll die if he doesn't.

"I want an understanding," his voice is pitched low and raspy. "And I think you know what I mean."

"You want to know I understand what kind of understanding you want? With me?"

I gesture to my chest, and he smiles, slow like honey, his green eyes so intense and bright. A shiver rolls through my whole body. I can't stop it.

"Where are my manners? Let me turn on the fire," he says, leaving my side. He walks to the fire and bends to it.

I could go now. I could walk right out the door instead of falling deeper into whatever this is that he's doing. My legs are rooted to the floor though, and I can only watch while my better self is detached in the distance, screaming at me to go.

This is different from before.

I'm not like who I was in Paris.