Despite the unshakable attraction between them, Maeve and Lucian are uninterested in love and marriage; especially since they hate one another and couldn't think of a worse match.
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London, 1815
Maeve Langston's aversion to the opposite sex has...
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Maeve was trying not to go mad with anxiety. There was no reason for her to be so worried. He had promised to come back, and he would. Admittedly, she didn't know when, but time was irrelevant, as long as he came back to her.
She wanted to try and act natural, as if she wasn't under great mental distress, but she feared she was failing at it. Her appetite was gone, her mind constantly drifted away, and she was barely able to hold a conversation. It was clear her family was beginning to see something was wrong with her, and she did not want to have to answer their question. What could she tell them, anyway? 'Oh, yes, I worry about a man, whom I barely know, to whom I am not engaged, and with whom I have had illicit interactions.'
Nevertheless, she was trying, even though she was failing, not to let herself fall apart.
She had successfully managed Sunday, the day after the ball, enjoying her siblings' presence, spending time with her family. On Monday, the day he was leaving London, her mood had hit a small bump, and she had cried for a short while in her bedroom, but nothing too critical. Tuesday, they had been on a family outing, and she had been distracted most of the day, as they had visited the zoo, then the Royal botanic gardens. It hadn't stopped her from panicking that very evening, when alone in her bed.
Today was Wednesday, and today his boat was leaving the country. As she paced her room, Maeve checked the clock. It was 10 am. When did boats usually sail away? At dawn? Didn't they have to wait for the tide? But then, which one, low or high?
Feeling herself spiraling, she tried to calm down. Lucian was coming back. He wouldn't die. He had promised. Also, he wasn't even going to be on the battlefield, so he wouldn't even get a scratch. But what if Napoleon won? Wouldn't they raid the encampment, looking for whoever was left alive?
Unable to control herself, she felt her breathing get faster. Her lungs were suddenly too small to get enough air, and she couldn't inhale properly. Her head spun from the lack of oxygen, her limbs becoming too weak to carry her. She fell to her knees, knowing she was on the verge of a panic attack. One with a magnitude she'd never endured before.
As her body was failing her, leaving her lying on the carpet, her mind was bouncing around in her head, invaded with questions and worries. What if he never came back? What if he died hundreds of miles away from her? What if he was her only chance at happiness? She would never meet another one like him. No man could ever compete with Lucian Thorne.
Feeling desperate like she never had before, she rolled on her side, hugging her knees in a fetal position, waiting for all this to go away. Images of Lucian's bloody corpse, lost in the middle of the battlefield, filled her mind, rendering her numb with grief and despair.
She had no idea of how long she stayed like this, crying silently, her tears wetting the fabric of the carpet under her temple, her sorrow never fading. The door opened before her, and she barely noticed. Vaguely, she registered it was Ailia, and her sister stayed unmoving for a few seconds, before she rushed to her, kneeling on the floor before her. Maeve couldn't do anything, her body numb, her mind cloudy.
