The library was so quiet, Ines could hear her own heart thumping, a wild, panicked beat against her ribs. He had promised. He had sworn on his life.
She took a shaky breath, letting go of his coat sleeve. Her hand felt cold and empty without the contact. He had sworn to keep her secret, but he was still staring at her, his dark eyes filled with a grim, assessing light. He was waiting. He had promised silence, but he had not promised to let the matter rest. He was still waiting for an answer.
What should I tell him?
She had to give him something. The truth—that she was curious, that she was a writer, that she was trying to imagine a passion she had never known—was impossible. He would think her depraved.
The victim act, which he seemed to have assumed, made her skin crawl. She was not a victim. She is a woman of craft.
She needed a new lie. A different lie. A logical one.
