His heart raced at that. Franz knew what it was to feel like you were losing your mind. Elisabeth clearly knew what it was to be accused of the same. Was she the person he could confide in? Is that what his heart was doing, recognizing safety?

She tilted her head, the braided hair falling gently over her shoulder, along the perfect curve of her neck. There was a small mole there, a precious thing. He suddenly wanted to kiss it.

He shook himself a little. No getting carried away. He’d start with a small secret, tentative. Not a test of her, but a test of himself. Could he tell her his truths?

“I punched Maxi once, knocked out a tooth. I kept it, too. Is that insane?” It was a truth, but not the truth. Not the one he wanted to tell her. He held his breath, awaiting her reaction.

And then there it was: a smile. Brilliant and dazzling.

“Now, that is completely crazy.” Her voice was cheeky in the best way.

They both laughed, the sound blending with birdsong through the window. Then Elisabeth was the one reaching across the gap between them. He wondered if she could see the way the air froze in his lungs.

But it wasn’t him she was reaching for. It was the ever-present scar peeking above his collar. Alarm spiked through him, and his hand came up automatically, grabbing hers and moving it quickly away.

“Does it still hurt?” Now her voice was tender, and his heart reached toward it.

He’d never wanted anyone to touch the scar, or to even remind him of it. But now—with her—he wished he hadn’t stopped her, wished he’d let her trace her fingers along his neck, inside his collar. That part of himself, that constant reminder of violence—he suddenly wanted it to be touched. To feel tenderness. Pleasure. The heat of life, not death.

But he shouldn’t be feeling any of this. If he stayed, he’d kiss her. And then he’d be no better than Maxi, stealing kisses from a woman he wasn’t intended for.

“No, it doesn’t hurt.” Franz let out a breath, reached toward the scar, and then stood. Elisabeth followed him to her feet.

“Thank you for …” He searched for the the right way to finish the sentence and, not finding it, bowed slightly. “This was very … interesting.” He hated how stiff he sounded, how he had so much to say and yet had said so little.

As he turned to leave, he could feel her standing there, light and energy, fire and wildness, watching him go.

TWENTY-THREE