The Duke with the Dragon Tattoo (Victorian Rebels, #6)(65)

His eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, a woman like mine?”

“Bit shy, isn’t she? Tenderhearted.” Blackwell swirled the contents of his glass, inspecting the caramel liquid with unnecessary absorption. “It’s difficult not to notice her damaged leg … her brother’s doing?”

“Part of why I killed him.”

“Just so.”

Blackwell didn’t ask another question, and antithetical to his nature, the Rook felt a need to fill the silence. “I spent twenty years thinking of nothing but getting back to her, and now that I have…”

“You realize you are no longer the boy who loved her. You’re…”

“Someone else,” he finished, pleased to have found a sympathetic soul. A heart as black as his own. “All I know is the sea. How can I navigate these waters when the sky is opaque? When the stars do not shine to light my way? How do I behave? How do I make her care for me? How do I stop her from fearing me?”

“She may yet fear you,” Blackwell conceded. “But it is undeniable that she cares for you.”

“Is it?” He searched his memory of their interaction for just which part of the last few hours made her feelings for him undeniable. He came up frustratingly empty.

Blackwell regarded him over the top of his glass. “When I went to meet you in the valley, she begged me not to kill you. She wept, and pleaded for you, and would not be consoled until I promised to do what I could to defuse the situation.”

A tiny spark lit in his chest, before sputtering out. “She knows nothing of who I am. She cares for who she wants me to be. Who I once was to her.”

Blackwell slid him a look. “And you cannot be that man?”

Dejected, he shook his head. “Even as a boy, a part of me knew I was not good enough for her. That I was a killer.”

Dorian examined him over the rim of his cup, as though crafting a plan before he spoke. “Then, perhaps, the kindest thing would be to set her free.”

The Rook’s eyes snapped up. “I am not equipped with that sort of kindness. How many times do I have to say it? She. Is. Mine.”

“I know. There’s nothing to be done for it, I’m afraid.” Dorian smiled that secret smile. “If she is yours, and you have her, then why the aggression?”

“I am an aggressive person,” he said blandly.

“The frustration, then. Is it of a … sexual nature?”

He looked away before nodding. “It seems that if I am to have her, I must take her. She will not submit to me. She … doesn’t want me. I’d erroneously thought that wouldn’t matter…”

“What stops you?”

He thought on this for a spell. He’d intended on taking her. He’d vowed that after everything he’d been through, he deserved her. He’d thought he’d lost enough humanity to be inured to her tears. To her needs. He’d show her that his attentions wouldn’t hurt her and eventually she’d submit to him. And yet … “For so many years, I’ve taken anything I want through brutality and force. But with her … I want her to give herself to me.”

Blackwell idly toyed with the corner of his eyepatch, adjusting the strap. “I’m reminded of a crocodile that my friend the Duke of Trenwyth told of upon returning from holiday to Egypt,” he said. “These are the most vicious creatures you’ll ever meet. Solitary monsters. They’ll eat each other. Feast upon their own young. They are the descendants of dragons, some say.” His gaze flicked to the Scythian Dragon on the seal in front of them.

“Their bite is so lethal, so strong, that even the largest of land predators give them a wide berth. However, there is a tiny bird, a plover, the most unimpressive-looking thing, who will perch in the monster’s open mouth without fear, and is never harmed. Never eaten. Because these fragile little creatures floss the carrion out of the crocodile’s teeth. And so, they have struck an almost ridiculous but mutually beneficial relationship for any hundreds of years.”

The Rook squinted at the man who had claimed his name. Was he drunk already? “I don’t gather your meaning.”

“My point is, some tiny plover, somewhere, had to gather enough bravery to land in a crocodile’s mouth. And that crocodile had to show enough trust, enough patience, to see what happened next without snapping his jaw shut and devouring the poor creature.”

Scowling, he tried to draw the comparison to him and Lorelai.

A sound of wry amusement drifted through the space between them. “You never were fond of metaphors,” Blackwell muttered.

“Wasn’t I?” He’d always yearned to meet someone who could answer questions about his past. Though he’d never considered how disconcerting it would be to share a room with someone who knew more about him than he did about himself.

“I taught you how to read, you know,” Blackwell revealed. “During those long nights in prison.”

He didn’t know. He could read, rather well, in fact. But just where he’d acquired the skill had been one mystery in a lifetime of a thousand.

Blackwell sighed. “The little bird is your wife, obviously. You, yourself, said she was fond of wounded animals, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“Show her your wounds, then. Bare your scars. Be the crocodile with the sore tooth. The wounded lion. Let her pluck the thorn from your paw and smooth away the pain of it. Perhaps then, she will no longer fear you. Perhaps then, she will accept her desire for you.”