Alexei stands motionless, his sapphire eyes fixed on you, yet their brilliance fades as the truth of your sentiments dawns upon him. He does not speak, but his features betray his confusion. You, an innocent woman shielded by modesty, now reveal an affection that twists the threads of propriety. He does not know what to say or do. Only hugs in the frost of night and fleeting, meaningless kisses bind you together.

He does not relinquish her, though whispers of her being pregnant by him drift through the air. Does he wish to consider you, to return your sentiments? Perhaps. But he does not. He cannot. His heart remains Anna's domain, held fast by a desirous love that blinds him to your worth. Why does he persist in his devotion to her when your arms could offer solace instead?

“You make me sick.” Alexei's voice loses its honeyed charm, now dripping with venom. It is all a game, of course—a dishonest ploy to appear indifferent.

He does not allow you to respond, cutting you off before a single word escapes your lips. Running a hand through his wheaten curls, he sweeps them out of his face with a careless motion. “You're nothing more than a pampered woman,” he continues in a cold tone, “spoiled by grand balls, gowns, and glittering trinkets.”

The man takes a step up the stairs, moving so near that you are forced to back into the railing. Your hands push at his chest in protest, creasing the rough fabric of his officer's jacket in your grip—he stands far too close after uttering such cruel words.

His rudeness hangs in the air like a poisonous stench, clinging unpleasantly, like the bitter tang of wormwood.

“You've no idea what love truly means,” the Count hisses, “and you never will, silly girl.”

He tries to hurl more bitting words your way, but he recoils as your tender hand delivers a sharp slap to his cheek. It is neither harsh nor offensive; instead, it calms him. Alexei catches your wrist, his other hand cupping your cheeks as he pulls you toward him, intent on stealing a kiss.

What an utter fool he feels.