23

S tephen raked a hand through his hair. He was desperate to help Elizabeth, but absolutely clueless as to what the problem was. The way she was lying there, pale, clammy, unmoving… Had he ever seen Elizabeth not moving? She was constantly in motion. A cyclone of energy. Unstoppable. Un slow able. And here she was, still as a corpse, as though this was her deathbed.

"Please," he begged, sinking to his knees beside the bed. "Just tell me what's happening. Maybe I can—"

"You can go away! You can't break down someone's door because you feel like it."

"You were literally doing just that when I met you."

"I thought you were the enemy. I was trying to destroy you. Is that what you want?"

"No! I want to help." Had she twisted an ankle? Broken a leg? He reached out his hand to determine the source of the problem.

" Do not touch me ," she bit out through gritted teeth. "I… This happens, all right? Sometimes for good reason, sometimes for no reason. My body just… gives up. Are you happy now?"

He'd be happy when he fixed it.

"I'll make splints," he offered. "Do you need splints? I can also make crutches. Or add wheels to a chair. Do you need medicines? There's an apothecary in town. I can also summon a surgeon. I'll do all the things: splints, crutches, wheels, poultices, surgeons. I'm making a list."

"Stop it." Her green eyes were glassy. "Do not fuss over me. I am not your baby, and you are not my nanny. Stop treating me like a problem to solve or a contraption to fix."

"But clearly…" He gestured at her prone in bed.

She closed her eyes. "Please go away, Stephen. Please ."

"Oh, I know what will help!" He jumped to his feet and rang the bellpull.

"What are you doing?" Elizabeth said in horror. "If I wanted other people to see me like this, I would have rung for the maids myself."

"I'll be quick," he promised. "Here's a footman now. Forester, could you please bring me the oak crate currently on the left side of the desk in the Great Hall? Miss Wynchester is feeling under the weather, and—"

Elizabeth moaned. "Get out! Both of you!"

Forester looked startled, but nodded at Stephen before hurrying off.

Stephen turned back to Elizabeth and readjusted his variables. The berserker wasn't infallible after all. Her own body sometimes betrayed her, and she had tried to hide it. He wondered if half of her bluster was an attempt to make up for this perceived failing.

"You don't have to be invincible to be extraordinary," he told her. "You're already so far past extraordinary, the numbers of probability cannot encompass your magnificence. You're 0.999—"

She glared at him. "What is the probability that I can get you to leave me bloody well alone?"

"I've just summoned a crate," he explained. "Once I've set it up—"

"Go to hell," she spat. "I didn't ask for a crate. I didn't ask for you . I didn't ask for any of this. I definitely didn't ask for you to stand around gawping at my weakness—"

Anger flared within him. There was no reason to lash out like that. He was trying to fix the problem!

" I don't think you're weak. You think you're weak." His voice rose. "I think you're the strongest woman I've ever met. The strongest person ."

"So strong and powerful, I can't even get you to leave me alone?" She gestured at the window. "Don't you have Reddington to deal with? I heard the horses, but I cannot fight."

"What? Oh, no, I didn't need you. That was a hackney bringing a potential orphanage instructor who wanted to see the castle—presuming we find the will. McCarthy is giving her an external tour of the grounds from the safety of her carriage. Apparently, Miss Oak told several applicants that as long as they—oh, look, here's Forester with that crate."

"Shove the crate up your arse," Elizabeth said with a ragged breath, "and close the door behind you."

Stephen glanced around her bedchamber until he glimpsed a washing table. He placed the pitcher and basin onto the floor, then swung the small table over to the bedside. Working quickly, he assembled the pieces inside the crate until the device was fully functional.

"It's a perpetual tea machine," he explained. "I intended to give it to you later, but… Tea isn't really infinite. The reservoir only stores a gallon of water at a time. But for tea purposes, that quantity should do. Just press this lever, which will engage that flint, and so on, setting off a series of reactions that last precisely three minutes, at which point the pot will tip forward, pouring a single portion into the teacup. I've not yet figured out a sensor to let the teapot know—"

"Who cares what the teapot knows! I can't even get through your thick skull." Elizabeth slapped a pillow over her face and let out a bloodcurdling scream.

"Er," said Stephen.

She flung the pillow aside and glared at him. "Listen to me carefully. I am not a system to observe and optimize. I don't need to be tinkered. I do not need you ."

"I just want—"

"It's not about what you want. You are not helping. Your presence is hurting me. You. Are. Hurting me." Her green eyes glistened with unshed tears. "If you care about me at all, then go… the hell… away."

"I…" He faltered, his heart tripping. Or perhaps it was Elizabeth's words, finally catching up to him. He replayed them, slower. She was right. Her lack of consent was the variable he ought to have been paying attention to.

Whenever there was a problem, Stephen immediately wanted to remedy the matter. But this wasn't about him, or what he wished. It wasn't even his problem.

If Elizabeth wanted him to know what she was struggling with, she would have told him. On her own terms. On her own time. When she was ready to do so. When she felt safe to do so.

Safety he'd taken from her, by barging in and fixing .

Instead of his fussing making her feel cared for, he'd made her feel diminished. Less than. Useless. Hurt.

He'd made a stoic berserker cry, for God's sake. Broken the fragile bond of trust between himself and the woman he was starting to fall for. Who might one day have loved him … if he had bothered to treat her like the capable woman she was. All she'd needed was for him to listen to her.

"I'm sorry," he choked out, backing away from the machine, from the bed, from her. "You're right. I should've left when you… I should never have entered. I won't come back unless you ask for me. And if you never ask for me, if you never want to see me again… That's your right, too. As it always should have been. I'm sorry."

He shut the door and leaned against it, his heart pounding. Or maybe breaking. If he'd just ruined his chances with the one person he cared about more than any other…

Oh, what was this "if"? Of course he had. She'd told him so, plainly: Get out. I don't need you.

He finally listened. A little too late.