Ben’s eyes were black as midnight as he looked over the top of Naomi’s head to me. I forced my face to adopt a placid, unruffled expression that I prayed conveyed no interest whatsoever in the fact that Naomi practically had her hands down his pants right there in front of everyone. He shook his head.
“What’s that?” Naomi cooed. “You don’t want anything you see? Nothing whatsoever?”
“Oh!” Imogen said, outraged by the show Naomi was putting on. “Benedikt, I insist that you stop this! You don’t know what you’re doing!”
Ben’s jaw flexed. He shook his head again.
Naomi laughed and tossed back her hair before she put both hands on his butt and licked his chin. “On the contrary, he knows exactly what he’s doing. Darling, you are sure there’s nothing the witch has to offer that you want?”
“No,” he answered, the word piercing me like an arrow. “There’s nothing there I want.”
“I thought not,” Naomi said with a smile at him as she stroked his chest.
“That . . . that . . . oh! I’m not going to stand for this!” Imogen said, starting forward, her hands fisted.
“Why bother?” I said loud enough that my voice carried over the drone of the people packed in the main aisle. I held Ben’s gaze, proud that I could speak without so much as a tremor in my voice. I was angry now, both at myself and at him. While I had been the one who had broken things off, I had never flaunted myself with another man in front of Ben. I’d never told him how much I was looking forward to dating other men. I’d never allowed another man to fondle me in front of him.
No, Inner Fran said bluntly. You just let the man believe you didn’t want him.
I closed my eyes for a moment against the guilt that swamped me, fighting it and the pain until I could speak. “Don’t bother, Imogen. People have the right to make their own choices. Ben has made his.”
Imogen spun around to stare openmouthed at me. “You’re not going to tell Benedikt what you think of this?”
“I believe I made myself quite clear the last time we spoke.” I kept my eyes on Ben despite the pain of it all. It was a suitable penance. “I hope he knows that I’m . . .” I couldn’t say the word. I just couldn’t. My fingernails dug even further into my palms. “. . . happy he’s found someone.”
Naomi turned a self-satisfied smirk on me as she rubbed her butt against Ben’s hip. “How very sweet. Come, lover. You can help me with the piercings tonight.”
By the stars that lit up the night, I was going to keep my expression from showing Ben just how devastated I was or I was going to die trying. As Naomi walked past, pulling Ben by his arm, my fingers tightened until the vial of happiness broke, sending hot little spikes of pain into my flesh.
“Son of a basket weaver,” I swore, opening my hand to find blood seeping through the gloves. Ben, almost beyond the booth, froze for a moment and glanced back at me, but Naomi jerked his arm, and with one last unreadable look, he followed.
“Did you cut yourself?” Imogen exclaimed, hurrying over to pick tiny little fragments of glass from my hand.
I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. The oddest emotions were swirling around inside of me—fury and pain in a tight little core, all coated with happiness from the introduction of the potion into my bloodstream. “Yes, I did. Isn’t it glorious? Look! I’m bleeding all over the place! Ben has broken my heart, left me for another woman, and destroyed my entire life. It’s all so wonderful, I could dance!”
And I did, severely hampering Imogen’s attempts to peel off my gloves in order to see how badly injured I was. It took a combination of her, Peter, and Kurt before they could get me to sit still long enough to clean up my hand. Three hours later I was still a bit giggly, although two pots of strong coffee and a measure of my own despair that would have dropped an elephant had helped work through most of the artificial happiness.
“You’re sure you’ll be all right by yourself?” Imogen asked as she hesitated in the door of my mother’s trailer. “I worry about you being alone. Perhaps you could stay with me. Günter would not mind, I’m sure.”
I had no doubt he’d mind very much, but I wasn’t about to say that. “I’ll be just fine here, thanks.”
Imogen frowned. “Speaking of him, I wonder where he is? I haven’t seen him since this morning. I shall go look for him. You get some sleep, dear Fran. And about Benedikt . . .”
Her expression said it all. I smiled wearily and waved her off before staggering to bed, where I lay tossing and turning for another couple of hours. I’d just fallen asleep when the weight of someone sitting on the edge of the bed had me grumbling, “Please, whichever one of you it is, not tonight. I’m really not up to randy Vikings.”
“I’m delighted to hear that. How about a randy Dark One?”
I rolled over and clicked on the light, my eyes already narrowed into a glare directed at the man who sat next to me, looking perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary, just as if he had a right to sit there and be so sexy, it made me want to rip off all his clothing and lick every inch of him. “You slimy, scummy strings of spit! How dare you come in here? How dare you sit there with your shirt open so I can see your chest? Get out! Go back to your precious Beloved.”
“I am with my precious Beloved,” he said calmly, trying to take my hand.
“Ow! Stop that, you’re hurting me,” I snapped, pulling my hand back. He shifted his grip to my wrist, slowly uncurling my fingers to reveal the bandages Imogen and Peter had applied.
“You did cut yourself. I thought so.”
“Take your hands off me, you slimy, scummy—”
“Strings of spit, yes, I know. Nice alliteration, by the way. Stop fighting me, Francesca. I wish to see your injury. I won’t hurt you.”
I stopped struggling with him at that, not because he had ordered me to do so, but because the sight of his head bent over my hand as he gently removed the bandages made a sob of misery catch painfully in my throat. “Why are you here?” I asked, my voice sounding thick with unshed tears.
His fingertips softly caressed the lacerations on my palm and fingers, causing no pain but generating a heat that seemed to spread up my arm. “I had to come. I couldn’t stand the look in your eyes.”
“Oh, you couldn’t? How thoughtful of you. I wonder that you didn’t think of that the second you jumped Naomi’s bones. How long was that after I broke things off, Ben? A month? A week? A couple of minutes?”
He looked at me with an unreadable expression. “Are you finished?”
“Yes. But only because . . .” My gaze dropped to where he was still holding my hand. A lump in my throat ached. “Only because I told you to go find someone else.”
“I don’t recall you ever saying that.”
“Not in so many words. But it’s usually what a breakup means.” Anguish caught on the lump in my throat, and I looked up at him, tears burning in my eyes. “I never so much as looked at another man.”
“I know.”
I stared at him in confusion as he brushed away one errant tear with his thumb. “How do you know?”
He was silent for the count of five. “You are my Beloved, Francesca. No, do not get your hackles up. I’m not going to debate the wisdom of that, or the fact that you are bound to me without your consent. I am simply saying that you are my Beloved, and as such, I am responsible for your welfare. I know that you have seen no other men because I was told so.”