Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“And who told you that? A former mistress?”


“My brother. Mark.” He twined his hand with hers. “There is no former mistress, Miranda Darling. There have been affairs, mind, but they never lasted long. Usually, she decides I’m stoic and cold only because I have been unlucky in love. She thinks she’ll be the one to melt through my defenses. She thinks that she can fix everything that is wrong with me by simply weeping over me. It lasts until she realizes I won’t spend the night, she can’t touch my face, and I despise women who weep for no reason. I have no tolerance for maudlin affection, and less for women who want to fix me.”

“Fix you?” Miranda said. “Why would anyone need to fix you? You’re not broken.”

“That’s precisely what I’ve always said.” He slid down to lie next to her. “Oddly, few people ever believe me.”

“I know what broken is,” Miranda said. “My father was broken, after my mother died. He just stopped working. He wouldn’t sleep. Wouldn’t eat. Wouldn’t even get out of bed. He just lay there and cried.”

“Good heavens. How long did it last?”

“Three years.”

“Three…three years.” He shifted to face her. “Three years.”

“I told you I know what broken is. That is broken—staring at the wall and weeping, while creditors hammer on the door and your troupe slowly slips away, stealing the best costumes in lieu of wages. When your friends leave you and you still cannot move, and nothing your daughter says can break you out of the spell. No man is broken because bad things happen to him. He’s broken because he doesn’t keep going after those things happen. When you told me about your mother, and how it made you resolve to be the person you are… What I thought was, ‘Yes, please, I’ll take him.’ Because you didn’t break.”

There was a pause. He propped himself up on one elbow and then picked up the watch he’d left on the bedside table.

“Would you know,” he said, his tone a bit more businesslike, “this conversation has officially exceeded my daily quota for mawkish sentimentality. That’s it, then.”

“Quota?” she said. “What are you talking about?”

“My sentimentality quota. There’s a limit as to how much sentiment I will tolerate in a day. I’ve just reached it.”

“It’s not—” she glanced at the watch in his hands “—not yet three in the morning. And this is…a special occasion.”

“Nevertheless, we’re done. As much as my pride loves to be puffed up, I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from further compliments. And definitely no protestations of love—that would put me off for a good long while.”

She might have argued. But then…a man who thought of drowning when a woman caressed his face might have reason to shy from sentiment.

This month no longer seemed dreadful. But it was not going to be simple, either. There was nothing easy about Turner. He’d fashioned himself into one hard edge. He was all blade and no handle. If she held him close, she’d risk being cut.

If she wanted proof that he cared for her, she knew how difficult he’d found this conversation. The surprise was not that he’d needed to end it; it was that he’d started to talk in the first place.

“I do have one question,” she said.

“I’m sure it’s more than one.”

“When you call me Miranda Darling, are you calling me Miranda Darling as my name, or are you saying Miranda, comma, darling?”

His hand slid down her hair. “I don’t believe I can answer that question without endangering the sentimentality quota beyond all hope of repair.”

Which was, in its own way, an answer. A good answer. Miranda smiled, feeling suddenly giddy. He didn’t have to say it for her to know it was true. He might not admit to being kind to cats, but if he fed them and petted them and smiled when they purred, she could trust in the strength of her own conclusions.

“Have it your way, then,” she said airily. “I’m profoundly grateful that your skills in bed are passable. I’ll enjoy spending your money, Smite.”

“You know I hate that name.”

“I do. I figured I’d best call you by it, to make sure we didn’t risk your quota. Otherwise I might have to invent a pet name for you, and we should be finished with each other before the day even started.”

He leaned into her. His mouth brushed hers in a kiss, startling in its sweetness.

“Ah. Miranda-no-comma-Darling,” he said, “I knew there was a reason I wanted you to fill my days with an absence of sentiment. Thank you.”





Chapter Thirteen




SMITE SHOULD HAVE SENT a gift instead.