Page 43 of Cruel Hearts

On Christmas morning, pale sunlight streamed in through the gauzy curtains of the living room, and a fire kept the vast space nice and toasty. I sat on one of the champagne-colored sofas, snipping some French darts behind the seams of the bolero jacket I wanted to give Gideon when he returned from spending Christmas with Francesco and Lachlan.

The doorbell rang. Since Mr. Burgh was downstairs, making hot chocolate, I set the jacket aside, headed for the door, and pulled it open.

Maxwell stood on the doorstep, holding an unmistakable book-sized, forget-me-not blue package, wrapped in a white bow. White flakes settled on his mahogany hair and broad shoulders and melted into droplets. Behind him, thick snow blanketed the entire courtyard. All that white brought out the eggplant purple of his bruised face.

Suppressing a pang of sympathy, I snapped. “What do you want?”

“To wish you a happy Christmas.” He thrust the package at me. “This is for you.”

A frigid gust of wind blew into my face, freezing the top layer of my skin. I folded my arms. “What is it?”

“Open it and find out.” He offered me the package again.

I stepped back, my gaze falling onto the Tiffany box. “If you think you can buy my forgiveness—”

“That’s not what I wanted,” he said. “Please, take it.”

My mouth dried. No one had ever bought me jewelry before, not even Sammy. He had given me a roof over my head when I had needed one, a gorgeous sewing room, and a car. He was a practical man, until he decided to give me the opportunity for a threesome with my best friend.

Swallowing back my reservations, I reached for the package. Our fingers brushed, the sensation squeezing my heart.

“Open it,” he murmured.

Even without the bruises, I could tell this was Maxwell. A mix of warmth and uncertainty radiating through his gray eyes—the stark opposite to his asshole brother.

I eased off the white, satin ribbon and pulled the lid off the box, releasing the scent of leather. A black, suede box lay within the first, and one of the butterflies in my stomach flapped a wing.

“Why did you buy this?” My voice cracked, making me cringe.

This wasn’t me. I wasn’t the girl who cried over a man or the girl who whined for explanations, but the night of the fashion show had changed everything.

The boy standing in front of me had risked himself to save my neck from Sammy, Billy Hancock, and their henchmen. He’d given me the best sex of my fucking life, only to let me get arrested in the most humiliating fashion and then smirk in my face.

Maxwell stepped across the threshold and flipped open the suede box, revealing a thin, rose-gold bangle studded with diamonds all around its front with a diamond fleur-de-lys motif. Around it was a matching necklace and stud earrings.

A lump formed in my throat. “They’re...” The words stuck in the back of my throat. Exquisite, feminine, delicate. Pride demanded that I hand back the gift, but it was worth well over five grand. I closed the box. “They’re pretty. Thank you.”

Disappointment flickered across his features, and irritation fizzled across mine. If he thought a few gestures could negate such a deep and calculating betrayal, he was kidding himself.

“May I come in?” he asked.

I stepped back into the warmth of the house and held the door. “You’d better return to the academy before you freeze on the doorstep. Merry Christmas.”

His face dropped. “Lilah, I am sorr—”

I slammed the door shut, and guilt tightened around my chest like an Alexander McQueen corset. Then a choker of paranoia wound around my throat. What if this jewelry was the start of another set-up? A way for the boys to prove their loyalty to Elizabeth by shattering what was left of my heart.

Shaking off those thoughts, I strolled back through the hallway, my footsteps clacking in time with the ticking of the grandfather clock. Back in the living room, I met the curious, blue eyes of my grandfather. He sat at a champagne-colored armchair, nursing a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

I should have let Maxwell inside. It would have been fun to watch him squirm under the scrutiny of Mr. Burgh.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Maxwell.” I placed the Tiffany box on the coffee table. “He wanted to apologize.”

Mr. Burgh extracted the suede box from the blue one and flipped it open. His brows furrowed. “You accepted this?”

After lowering myself onto the sofa, I grabbed my own mug, inhaling the sweet aroma of rum and chocolate. “It’s the least he can do after—”