Bitterlich drew on his most pleasant and fastidious demeanor, the one that had seen him through being pelted with stones and rotten fruit and had allowed him to stand in the presence of the despicable and the mighty without flinching. He’d been polite to people who made it plain they deemed him unworthy to lick their boots. He’d been pleasant to people who smeared his reputation and called him a beast. He’d come across as genuine to men who were trying to coax him into betraying his sovereign.

Lying to Isabelle was harder. His tongue felt like it wanted to reach up and throttle his brain, but he forced it to obey his will, his choice. “That was a delightful moment, and one I shall treasure forever. Yet it was only a moment.”

Isabelle lost a shade of color, as if she’d been burned by a bloodshadow, and her voice was slightly rough. “I see. Thank you for clarifying. I am sorry if I embarrassed you.”

The death of hope in her eyes was a spear through his soul, but his shot was fired, the decision made beyond recall.

“The fault is entirely mine,” Bitterlich said. “By your leave.”

She nodded mutely, and he let himself out. He trudged to the forecastle, riding the ship through toss and tip, and stood clinging to the forward rail.

Tears as hot as molten iron welled up and he scrubbed them away. He had no business crying. This was his fault. He had hurt her. He should have known better than to let himself be attracted to Isabelle in the first place. He should have known better than to let anyone past his guard. Yet it would have been worse to let it go on to its fruitless end. Fixing his mistake hurt, like re-breaking a bone that had set badly, but it had to be done.

Isabelle sat in her cabin staring unseeing at the journal open before her. Rejection coiled around her heart and squeezed like a python, pain that robbed her of breath and bent her spine like a withered crone.

Builder and Breaker, she’d been a fool to imagine Bitterlich fancied her. She’d been a fool to imagine his flirtations anything but a friendly game, a fool to build a future on the foundation of a single kiss.

She shut the book and turned her face to the stateroom window. Her reflection in the alchemical glass stared back at her, half her face burnt and bubbled like hot tar. Who would want to stare at that every day? Who would fancy a haunted woman, possessed by fractured ghosts?