He drank from his glass of water and kept his arms on the table, but he didn’t eat. It wasn’t a question, but he absorbed my statement like it was, searching for a response. “He’s made up for his mistake…for the most part.” His eyes flicked away, slightly glazing over. “His betrayal hurt. But I know he wasn’t himself.” His dark eyes came back to me. “A woman can do that to you…”

I felt the waves of his stare wash over me like the high tide had rushed in. The beat against my face as if I were the rocks. They kept coming—over and over. “It’s good to forgive and forget—especially for family.”

His stare deepened, penetrating my face like needles to the skin. “And love.” His hands went back to his utensils, and he watched himself slice the meat and stab the vegetables before putting it in his mouth, his eyes returning to me.

My heart raced because that was the first time he’d said anything of the sort since I’d left. “How did you two get into this line of business?”

He ate his food with no intention of answering.

“I just want to know you better. If I intend to stay here for a long time—”

“For the rest of your life.” His voice deepened, as if giving me a command that only had one response—to obey.

He possessed me with just his words, reached across the table and grabbed me without ever touching me. Even when we weren’t in the same room together, his hold was unbreakable. I lived on my own in Paris for months, and even then, he still had me. I had options to date other men, to sleep with other men, to move back home, but I never did any of those things. “Then you’ll have to tell me.”

“I don’t have to do anything, Melanie.”

It was a deliberate sting, a reminder that he was still upset about my betrayal, that he hadn’t quite overcome it. “I just want to know you. That’s all. Why does Gilbert call you His Highness? Is that a title you picked out?”

He stopped eating, resting his arms on the table. “No.”

“Then where does it come from?”

He gripped the fork between his fingers. “I’m a count.”

My eyebrows rose. “A…count?”

“Yes.”

The palace. The paintings. The teacups. The butler. His social connections. In an instant, it all made sense. He was handsome, intelligent, well-mannered, like he’d been born into elegance. “If you’re a count, why do you have the camp?” If he was already rich, already powerful, then what did he need it for?

His look turned cold.

“I just want to know you…” I egged him forward in the only way I could.