Page 84 of The Bargain

He shakes his head. “Your parents, though,” he says, softly, almost wonderingly. “Isn’t that blurring the lines a little too much, love?”

I lick my lips nervously. He’s right—of course he is—and I’ve been thinking about it non-stop—what it’s going to be like, Elias meeting my parents. My father, who will want to know everything about him. My mother, if she manages to take the time off work. I pray she doesn’t—because if she does, she’s going to take one look at us and immediately know the truth. A risk I can’t afford.

But if he meets Mum, the little voice in my head anxiously reminds me, she might help him if Birnam ever wakes up, if he’s ever arrested.

That won’t happen, I keep telling myself. And if it does, Mum can’t know. She can’t know what Austen and William did.

She can’t know what happened to Ophelia. On my watch.

“The lines are already blurred,” I tell Elias. I’m mortified to hear my own voice come out hoarse and broken. “Anyway, that was the whole point of our deal, wasn’t it? Not the dating itself, but what you can get out of it? So there you go. I’ve invited you. You can come or not, it’s up to you.”

He watches me, withstands the weight of my glare. And I don’t know what he sees—if he sees my fury, my wounded pride, my annoyance, or if he sees all the pain and terror hidden behind all those things.

Maybe he sees all of it. Maybe he’s thinking about St Dominic House, like me, thinking about it all the time, all the time.

Finally, he raises his hand, places a single finger under my chin, tilting it up. And then he leans down and brushes his lips over mine in the softest kiss.

My heart drops. The kiss is tender and warm and disastrous because it feels so real, and because the corridor is completely empty. I want to melt into him, to give him all of me and claim all of him in return. I’m worthless, I want to remind him, so love me.

But how could he, when we promised not to break the fifth rule? I close my eyes and my throat feels suddenly so tight I can barely swallow. I should never have invited him.

“Yes, love,” he says, low and sweet. “I’ll come.”

32

Absolute Catastrophe

Elias

Pride comes before the fall, and of course, there are many ways to fall. Accepting Desdemona’s invitation was a catastrophic miscalculation on my part. A strategic misstep, a reckless mistake. Like playing a chess game with my heart as a pawn, against a beautiful opponent I don’t even want to defeat.

I don’t realise this when I arrive at the Blackwood estate: the great lines of cedars outside, the wrought-iron gateway proudly displaying the family crest, the acres of lush woodland and emerald lawns. The manor itself, with its long windows and spires and chimneys, the museum-like interior, with its priceless artwork and ancient furniture.

And I don’t realise it when I meet Desdemona’s parents’ friends: Blaise’s parents, Lord Blackwood and the famous author Theodora Dorokhova—herself a descendant of Russian nobility. Successful artist Anaïs Nishihara and her husband, the French aristocrat Séverin Montcroix, or Dimitri’s father, the hulking giant Iakov Kavinski, who is just a paler, more cheerful version of Dimitri himself. His mother, activist and politician Zahara Blackwood.

This whole roster of rich, famous people doesn’t give me hesitation—if anything, it’s comforting, a reminder that this whole thing is just part of the deal I struck with Desdemona.

Two days into the holiday, Desdemona’s father arrives: the KGM heir, Evan Knight. Meeting him is an odd experience, because it’s impossible to look at him and not see Desdemona: in his long, athletic limb, his easy grace, his competitiveness and golden hair.

“Elias, yea?” was the first thing he said to me.

“Elias Lennox.” I’d stuck out my hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

He’d dropped his eyes to my hand, let out a burst of laughter, and pulled me into a bear hug so tight it had made my bones crunch into each other.

Unlike Desdemona, her father is laid back and relaxed, full of laughter and sunshine, easy-going and affectionate. But the differences between them don’t make me feel like she’s not like him—instead, they make me realise what Desdemona could be, if she wasn’t burdened by responsibilities, if she wasn’t permanently suffocating on top of that impossible pedestal she’s on.

And that’s how I realise what a mistake I made coming here.

It’s the morning of the third day: I walk into the kitchen after being bullied into going for a run with Desdemona’s father, the twins, Dimitri and his gigantic dad. It’s a gruelling run, because all of them are athletic freaks, but there’s something weirdly wholesome about their easy, wolfish banter. Like a different version of the Brotherhood. I set off on the run feeling like the odd one out—and come back feeling like everyone’s distant cousin.

In the kitchen, I stop dead in my tracks; though I was panting when I walked in, my chest stills, my throat suddenly airless.

Desdemona sits balanced on the great kitchen island, one knee raised up against her chest. She’s wearing a big baggy sweatshirt with the name Knight on the back and the words Spearcrest Swim Team on the front, pyjama shorts and fluffy socks. Her hair is in two messy braids down her back—she still has the fuzziness of sleep in her eyes and face.

But her head is thrown back: she’s laughing open-mouthed and unguarded. Her uncle Séverin is telling her the story of how her uncle Zachary proposed to his wife, and the two of them are debating back and forth while one of them cooks pancakes and the other is pouring cups of cocoa.

All I can do is stare at Desdemona, and it feels like I’ve just seen the princess after the curse has been broken. It’s a terribly unsettling feeling, like seeing someone exposed beyond nakedness, exposed in a way that makes you feel you now have some sacred duty towards it.