Page 81 of Misadventures with a Time Traveler

He scrubs a hand over his face. “It does not matter either way, I suppose.”

“So it is true.”

He grips my waist with both hands, gently lifting my body off his. As soon as his cock falls free, he twists and leaves the bed. “It does not matter because you do not believe it, chérie.”

I scramble around to sit up straight. All my frustration and confusion finally bubble to the surface and spill out. “Just because you say so?”

“Because I know so.” With two brusque steps, he clears the space to the bathroom. After a few moments, he reemerges, bearing two clean cloths. As he sits and offers me one, he utters, “I have not come on this trip to try to make you believe, Alessandra. I only want to keep loving you for as long as fate will let me.”

I do nothing to hide my growing conflict as he brushes back my sweaty curls with his fingertips. My scalp tingles as he threads his touch deeper. A weary sigh escapes me. I force my eyes to close, afraid his incisive gaze will easily read my answer to his confession.

But maybe that’s exactly what I want.

More than anything.

Make me believe, Maximillian.

Please make me believe.

Chapter Thirteen

Max

Bastien.

Mother.

Father.

My soul cries with their names. My muscles coil, battling not to throw off the cloak that Carl lent me to disguise myself in this crowd.

Crowd?

No. It is a mob, succumbing to the most terrible rules of mob mentality. They are vicious. Violent. Bloodthirsty. Animals.

“Off with their heads!”

“Off with their heads!”

“Off with their heads!”

My father, barely recognizable because of their beatings, looks as if he desires the same thing already. Bastien, two years my younger but five times the warrior I shall ever be, glares into the throng as if mentally severing their heads.

But the sight of Mother incinerates my soul the most.

Her head is bowed, her posture defeated. They have stripped her to her night shift. Her stooped shoulders shake. Though I have never seen her like this, I know every drop of what she is feeling. Confusion. Grief. Betrayal by so many standing here. People whom she has personally helped in so many ways over the years. People she has even called friends.

All calling for her head beneath the ax.

All cheering even louder as Father is led to the block first.

All bellowing in triumph as the executioner swings the blade high.

And brings it down with a sickening thunk.

“No.” I grab the cloak’s cowl.

“No, milord!” Carl stays me, his fist tight on my wrist. “They will revolt and be after your blood!”