She squeezed his hand again, and suddenly he felt as though he might cry. He had always thought the times he and his father had come to physical blows were less painful memories than their other, verbal confrontations, which made a certain sort of sense. A punch was a punch. It hurt, but it ended things. Whereas a sneering examination of what Father thought Max should have learned in the schoolroom but had not yet mastered could go on and on and on. That kind of torture, Max had always thought, was more insidious than a quick slap.

Max’s sympathy and concern had been reserved for Sebastien, because Seb had always been so guileless, so much more vulnerable. Max had been older and stronger. But he thought suddenly of Leo’s sister, Gabby. Of someone laying hands on her in a fit of violence. He would kill anyone who did that. She was a child.

But he had been, too. A child. He had been a child who had deserved better.

His eyes were burning. “Fuck.” He lifted his free hand to swipe away a rogue tear, swallowed the rock in his throat, and went back to her question. “I didn’t get hit that much. I developed a well-pitched campaign of distraction. If I made bigger mistakes—more consequential ones—than Seb, what did a tea party matter?” He shrugged. “Eventually, I got taller and bigger than him.”

“I’m sorry, Max.” Dani spoke quietly, without the fraught expressions of outrage or shock he didn’t want.

He was glad he’d told her. He was glad she was here.

And, idiot that he was, he suddenly realized he was still holding her hand. Clutching it as if it were a lifeline—perhaps it was. He let go, which was more difficult than he would have expected, and grabbed the Veuve to pour refills. “Drink up. This is getting warm.”

“I have one more question.”

“All right.” He didn’t really want to answer any more questions, but he could not deny her something that was so easy to give.

“Is it possible things will get better after your father dies? How old is he?” She winced. “I sound like I’m wishing for him to die.”

“It’s all right. It’s a fair question. My father is fifty-three. He’s in remarkably good health despite the fact that he’s practically pickled in vodka. And to answer your other question, I suppose in one sense, life will be easier when he’s gone. But it is difficult for me to convey how much I do not want to be the duke. Not to be melodramatic, but the idea of inheriting feels like . . .”

“Feels like what?”

“Locking myself up and throwing away the key.” He snorted. “Listen to me. I sound like a princess trapped in a tower.”

“How would a princess trapped in a tower get out?”