“There we agree.” Victoria stood from the bed, neglecting to cover herself, and couldn’t help a bit of smugness when he had to tear his gaze away, his jaw clamping suddenly shut. He wasn’t a bad sight himself, standing there in only untied trousers that settled at his hips. “It must be your scorned lover Sara behind all of this, and George too.”
Max stopped suddenly and looked at her. “Victoria, Sara and I were never lovers . . . in the true sense of the word.” He pitched the bundle of cloth at her. “You’re cold. Put this on.”
“I’m not cold. And in regards to Sara—you made a good case for the contrary,” she retorted, catching the shirt. Did that mean he hadn’t loved Sara, or that he’d never been intimate with her? “And it doesn’t matter now.”
“No, it doesn’t. But I knew you wanted to know. And . . . you should.” He pulled out another shirt and shook it out, preparing to put it on. Then he stopped. “Victoria.”
She had started to pull on his shirt, ready now to return to her own room and dress, but his voice halted her. His hand was on the silver cross that pierced his skin. “This is yours.”
Her fingers touched the one at her navel that had belonged to him; she was able to identify the difference between the two by feel. “And this is yours.”
Without another word, he gave a little twist, then a pull, and slipped the dainty vis bulla from his skin. “Wear it now. It might help.”
Her attention flashed to him. Had Wayren told him about the internal battle for her soul? Or was this merely a way to rid himself of any attachment to her and the Venators? “Only if you wear yours again.” She looked up. “Lilith is aware of our . . . exchange. She was not pleased.”
His mouth settled into a thin line again, drawing deep grooves. “Shall I help you?” he said when he saw that she fumbled with the little silver hoop. His fingers were quick and skillful, warm on her bare skin—but they were impersonal, and didn’t linger—as he removed the simple cross. Then he pulled taut the little lip of skin at the top of her navel and slipped her own vis bulla into place.
It was an oddly intimate gesture—odd considering what had passed between them last night. Victoria felt a twinge of remembrance and her stomach did the silly little flip it tended to do when she was surprised . . . or discomfited. But then the feeling ebbed, and she realized that having her own vis bulla back in place was . . . cleaner. More pure and solid.
Max moved away, holding his vis, hesitant. Then, with ease she’d not shown, he replaced it in his areola and breathed deeply. Perhaps he wondered if his Venator powers would be restored once he wore his own amulet. He turned back to the neat table on which his personal items were gathered, and Victoria watched as he slipped the heavy silver ring onto the middle finger of his left hand. As if girding himself for battle.
“Tell me how the ring will protect you.”
“I’m certain you’ve already figured it out, but . . . there is a catch which, when moved correctly, opens to reveal a sharp blade dripping with venom. A simple prick will do the trick.”
“To you . . . or to Lilith?”
“To me. Now, why are you still here? Should we not be planning how to save your lover?”
She’d suspected it . . . but now she knew for certain. Max was withdrawing again. He meant to foist her upon Sebastian again so that he could walk away. And use that bloody silver ring whenever he chose.
What about me?
She bit her tongue, holding back the questions, the demands, the comparisons. After all, hadn’t he despised Sebastian for turning his back on the Venators? There would be time for that later, time to force him into a conversation he wished to avoid. She wasn’t about to let anything happen to Sebastian and Kritanu.
The rest of Max’s comment brought to mind something he’d said earlier. “What do you mean, you aren’t certain who they are trying to lure? It’s you, of course. Lilith wants you back and Sara nearly delivered you to her. Two in exchange for one. Which is why there can be no ‘we’ about this.”
Max raised a brow. “Indeed? I happen to disagree. I believe Lilith wants you more than she does me. After all, you’re still a threat to her, unlike me—as you’ve made quite clear so recently. And you’ve escaped her for a second time, only days ago. I can only imagine how much ash exploded after that—and after last night, when we foiled her plans to kidnap the king. And if she believesyou are some sort of rival for my . . . affections . . .” His expression and tone indicated how absurd that thought was.
“Don’t be ridiculous. Is this some kind of twisted way for you to try and take control?” She realized she was still standing there with the shirt in front of her. She yanked it over her head. It smelled of him. Her knees weakened.
“No.” He gestured to the packet, which lay on the mussed bed, open to show the glint of two shades of hair. “Apparently you didn’t notice that the message was unaddressed. It’s not clear for whom it was intended.”
She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it. “It doesn’t matter, Max. You’re not as well equipped to face her as . . . as you used to be.”
If she expected anger from him at her statement, she was disappointed. “There’s one thing you’re forgetting.” His lips stretched in a humorless smile. “No one would ever think that I’d be moved to save Vioget’s life. It’s a game. And you’re meant to be the prize.”
Victoria would have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so horrible. In fact, she did give a snort of disbelief. “That’s just it, Max. You would be moved to save his life. The life of anyone, even someone you hate—”
“I don’t hate him.”
“Even someone for whom you have a great amount of antipathy. Because it’s the noble thing to do,” she added sharply, remembering her own poor choices. Leaving Bemis Goodwin and his companion to die. Drugging Max. Hating Gwen for her happiness. “Ever the hero, aren’t you, Max? Always selfless. Do you never do anything just for you?”
She realized suddenly that the red haze was nudging the frame of her vision. Her heart was racing, and she felt a surge of ugly anger bubbling inside her. Automatically, she took a deep breath, touched her vis bullae, and shook her head as if to clear it. Yet that nobility, that steadiness, was what she loved most about Max. The strong, impassable line drawn between right and wrong, black and white.