Duke of Desire (Maiden Lane #12)(60)

“Please,” she whispered against his ruined flesh. “Please.”

He groaned, deep in his chest, and buried his face in her hair. “Iris.”

“Please.”

His shoulders tensed, his breathing grew ragged.

His voice sounded like broken obsidian when he spoke. “I did it.” He inhaled as if the words were burning his throat. “I scarred myself.”

Her heart stopped.

Of all the possibilities, she’d never even imagined that one. Dear God.

“How …” She had to stop to clear her throat. “How old were you when you did it, Raphael?”

“Twelve.”

And then she knew what it was to have one’s heart break, for she could feel a sharp ache inside her, a well of grief and shock and horror. “Why?”

He shook his head against her, his face still hidden.

But she’d come too far. This was important. She could feel it.

“Why, Raphael?”

He bent and lifted her, one arm under her legs, one under her back.

Iris clutched at his shoulders as he took two steps to the bed and carefully laid her on it. She watched him as he stripped himself of breeches, smalls, stockings, and shoes, until he was naked. Beautiful and strong and without shield. And then he climbed in beside her.

She opened her arms to him and he gathered her close again.

Her cheek was against his warm chest and she could hear his heartbeat. She was still, breathing next to him, wondering if she would have to give up her questions for the night.

Then he spoke.

“My father adored me when I was small. He called me beautiful. I was his prince. Cosseted. Spoiled. Stroked and petted. You know that he was the Dionysus. That he …”

His breathing was uneven again.

Very, very carefully she shifted until she was holding him and stroked his hair.

His head was a heavy weight upon her breast.

He swallowed, his throat clicking. “He liked children, though I didn’t know it at the time. How could I? I was too young, too sheltered to even conceive of such a thing.”

She inhaled, suppressing any sound, though she wanted to exclaim.

To perhaps scream.

If he could speak this horror aloud—for her, because she had asked it—then she could listen.

“My father didn’t touch me in that way until I was twelve,” Raphael said, his voice hoarse. “I was to be initiated into the Lords of Chaos. It was to be a great honor.”

He gasped as if a hand were tight around his throat.

She closed her eyes, trying to keep her fingers from shaking as she threaded them through his hair.

“First …” He inhaled. “First there was the tattoo. It would hurt, but I was determined not to weep—and I didn’t. I was absurdly, naively proud. Then he took me to the revelry and there were …” He swallowed again, loud in the silence of the room, and when he spoke again his words were stark. Staccato. “I was confused. They were hurting children. Women. But they gave me wine to drink. My father. And then. My father.… Brought me. Back to the abbey. To his room.” He wrinkled his nose, opening his mouth as if to refrain from inhaling a scent. “Father’s room always smelled of cedarwood. He said there was one more step to the initiation.”

Iris bit her lips to keep from crying aloud. Oh no. No, no, no.

But her silent denials couldn’t stop his broken, rasping voice. “He told me. He told me. He said he loved me. I was his beautiful prince. Then he pushed my face into the pillows—his cedarwood-scented pillows.” He breathed heavily. As if he were gasping for air that wasn’t there. “And buggered me.”

She sobbed—a loud, awful sound—and laid her cheek against his as if to brace him.

As if to give them both strength for his next words.

He turned his face into her breast and said in a rush, “When it was done he rolled off me. He fell asleep. I … I fled. I ran to the kitchens. I was half-mad. All I could think while he was on me was that this must not happen again. He’d said I was beautiful.”

“Oh, my darling,” she whispered, her heart aching. Her eyes were blinded by her tears now.

He shuddered, his entire body quaking as if a giant hand shook him. “If I could make myself ugly then he wouldn’t do it again, would he? I found the sharpest carving knife. I held it with both hands. And I put it against my eye. I meant to cut it out.”

“Oh God,” she moaned. How must he have felt—such a little boy in despair and fear, doing that? It was a wonder that he hadn’t killed himself.

She traced over his scarred cheek with her fingers. He still had the eye. He hadn’t done that, at least.

“I obviously didn’t succeed,” he said, “but my plan did work. The cook found me in the morning. When my father saw me—saw the great gash I’d carved in my face—he was disgusted. Aunt Lina took me to Corsica the next week. I never came back.”

“I’m so glad she was there to take you away,” she whispered, choking on her sobs.

He was still, breathing against her, and then he raised his head and looked at her.

His eyes were perfectly dry and his face was blank.

For some reason that made her sob anew. She knew now that the ice covered a wound so awful, so terrible that it would never completely heal.