Page 31 of Red Masquerade

His hands steadied me, cupping my elbows, his fingers rough yet smooth at the same time, hard and unforgiving. It sent electricity through me. An exciting zing at the familiarity.

But it also felt like a lie.

“You’re supposed to be dead.” The words came out hot, angry. My disbelief overtook me, and I pulled myself away.

He blinked. “I’m not,” he said so simply I suddenly wanted to scream.

“I thought you weredead.”

I felt like a fool. I had been fooled.

“It’s beensix years.”

“I know—”

I shook my head. “You’ve let me believe forsix yearsthat you were dead.”

The rush of emotions I’d felt in the last few minutes, the fear, the shock, the anger, pulsed against my skull. The beginnings of an ache behind my eyes.

He kept his mouth shut as I moved away from him.

“Whatis going on?” My voice cracked. “I don’t know what you think you’re doing, suddenly reappearing after all this time, thinking it’ll all be fine, but this is some cruel game I wantnopart of.”

This was some joke, he was some imposter, it wasimpossible—

“Helena, breathe.”

And there werekillershere—

I couldn’t get enough air in my lungs.

The anger hurt. Seeing him reminded me of all the grief, the pain I’d ignored for these years, I couldn’t stop it all from coming out.

I didn’t want to feel this way. I didn’t want to hate him, to scream at him. But I could do nothing else.

The backs of my eyes burned.

My ribs were being squeezed, air hardly slipping through to my lungs, short and fast—

My chest heaved, fingers gouging my palms. Biting my lip, the pain was grounding, an iron tang spreading on my tongue.

And he just stood there, one fist clenched at his side, unblinking, as if assessing my every move. He was completely unruffled, the creases still straight in his trousers, his jacket. Only the vague dusting of a shadow at his jaw.

He looked six years older, his shoulders slightly broader, the suggestion of lean muscles at his chest, his arms. But the concern in his eyes was just the same. And that’s what hurt.

He looked at me the same. Just as he used to.

His throat bobbed, gaze zeroing in on my lips.

It wasn’t the expectant gaze of every other man I’d met these past few years. No, it was more like he was reacquainting himself with me, examining the makeup I’d applied, makeup I would never have worn before.

Maybe he hadn’t changed much, but I had.

I’dmoved on.

I took a shaky breath, stuttering out, “I need to leave.” I made for the door, but when he stepped toward me, I froze.

“Helena, I understand this is a lot.”