Wolf Omega: Lykanos Chronicles 2

A week after that lubricated dinner, I arrived home from shopping to find Maximo sitting in the front drawing-room. He smoked a cigar and read that morning’s Times just as casually as he had eight years earlier on the day I left Washington.

“Gracious! This is a rare favor,” I said with surprised laughter.

“I found I needed to see you.”

He set his cigar into the ashtray and folded the paper, then stood up and offered me a warm kiss on the cheek.

“How lovely. Will you stay awhile?”

“That all depends on you.”

“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, receiving the first sign of unease from his mind.

“I understand that you’ve moved on to more than a new address.”

I felt my heart race in my throat. It offered Maximo immediate proof that his suspicion was correct. After all those years, my lies fell apart without a single word. I stared at his lovely green eyes to see them filled with something far more effective than accusations or disappointment. He felt injured, and his unmasked mind didn’t spare me from the wrenching emotion.

Maximo reached for my hand to draw me beside him on the sofa. I felt stunned more than anything, and I looked away, attempting to gather my mind.

“Have we been together too long?” he asked with his steady tenor.

I couldn’t form an answer and remained silent.

“I’d never felt separated from you while you were here, even though you were hundreds of miles away. Appraising it now, I see how intensely stupid I’ve been. It felt like you were only in the next room. I hadn’t felt apart from you since that day we ran away from Como.”

He stopped and stared off, and I saw the memories playing in his mind. First, how we flew through the country and alps, fighting through anything that stood in our way. Then how we floated in the pond at night, holding hands and staring at the brilliant stars. I saw the joy in old Baron Roussade’s face when I said goodbye. I felt the century of security and joy while we cultivated the Roussade vineyards. With them were the endless drunken nights of laughter and passion.

“That is until this week,” Maximo continued, “when Richards showed me a letter written to him by Henry. After reading it, I wondered how the things the boy described could be possible. And as this absurd idea he described took hold in my mind, I wondered how blind I might be. How could it be possible that you’d moved on and left me behind without so much as a word? Even now that I see the truth in your eyes, that the boy’s concerns were justified, I still can’t fathom it.”

He sighed uneasily, and I felt the massive well of despair building within him.

“It makes no sense to me; the silent deception; the disrespect. And I’m left with my first question: have we been together too long? It’s the only thing I can think of to explain my blindness.”

I trembled as he spoke, and now I placed my hands over my eyes in utter shame. Every mindless thing I’d told myself before this moment—that our love had changed, that he wouldn’t care, that it would be meaningless after so long—all of it all came crashing down as his dignified pain flooded through me. I sensed the utter betrayal he felt, and he still didn’t know the full extent of it.

To my abject horror, he placed his arm around me and pulled me into him, nuzzling his head against mine to comfort me. It was too much, his selfless affection, and I fell to deep sobs as he cradled me like I was some hurt child instead of a treasonous adulteress.

When I woke up later that afternoon in Maximo’s arms, I felt almost paralyzed. After begging his forgiveness, our lovemaking had been so intimate and genuine that I didn’t know how to process it. There was no urgency or angry lust between us, only the honest, exquisitely silent trust that had built between us over two centuries. I’d felt freed by it, even though I knew the sensation could only be as authentic as I was with Maximo.

I sat up in bed and pulled on a dressing gown. Crossing the room, I sat down at my small writing desk and pulled a sheaf of paper. Dipping my silver quill in the fresh ink, I scribbled a quick note.

Maximo is in New York with me. Stay away.

I folded the letter and sealed it with wax, then rang for my maid. She quietly arrived and received it with instructions for Henry to take my carriage and courier it over to Duccio’s house. Once gone, I returned to bed to lay in Maximo’s arms.

“Do you have plans this evening?”

I hugged him, drawing in the clean musk of his rich scent.

“None.”

“Can we dine out? This is your city. Take me somewhere special.”

Within the hour, I had dismissed my cook for the evening, and we were in my carriage on our way to Delmonico’s on the corner of William and Beaver. Before I could think to stop him, Maximo announced us as the Baron and Baroness du Roussade to the maître d’ hôtel, and I cringed to see the severe man’s eyes light up with satisfaction. In moments, he brought us to a table at the center of their principal room, a lavish setting hosting the finest people in New York. I figured we only had a few minutes before patrons would begin to file by, excited to introduce themselves to my husband. It was the reason I wished to be a simple Missus in America. There was nothing comparable to an aristocratic peerage in this land other than the political arena or notorious wealth itself, and I wanted nothing to do with its onus of attention. I also wanted to be alone with Maximo. The idea that Duccio might learn of our attendance and show up here was not out of the question.

Maximo was just as welcoming to the attention as he was magnanimous in declining their invitations for late suppers at clubs or their homes. After being interrupted five times before our soup arrived, the room finally settled to allow us time to dine in peace.

Oysters and caviar, Maryland terrapin and canvas-backed duck, and of course, Delmonico’s steak with gastronome potatoes. He positively loved it all, though I only nibbled upon everything that arrived at our table.

I knew I must tell him about Duccio, but I relied on the house’s gifted champagne to swallow my words more than once.

“I don’t want to know any more about it,” Maximo said as if sensing my need to reveal more. “If we love each other, and it’s over, then anything else you want to say about the matter is meaningless to me. Let’s just continue down this road together and welcome the future.”

He lifted his glass and toasted.

“As we always have.”

Maximo’s words brought me such relief and joy that I couldn’t contain my smile. It was settled. I would go to Duccio in the morning and tell him that it was done. I’d never see him again, and in all likelihood, I would return to Washington before the month was finished. He would be annoyed, to be sure, but what choice had he other than to understand and withdraw? He knew I would sooner destroy him than allow anything to happen to my husband.

Then again, perhaps it was simple vanity to think he would care at all. What if Duccio acknowledged my farewell with all the interest of seeing a waiter clear a finished plate?

“I could get used to this place,” Maximo said eagerly as the hot Nelson apples and cold Charlotte russe arrived.

“It’s much more comfortable here than Washington, though there are just as many hazards to contend with. There were riots barely a dozen blocks north last month.”

“But the city is far more alive; you can see it everywhere you turn. And Washington doesn’t have a Delmonico’s.”

“You would consider leaving your post?”

“I would consider being wherever you were happiest.”

Again, I considered our lives continuing in this place. Would I have the courage to allow it? I’d have to tell him of Duccio, after all. The truth might sour his new passion for New York. But then it too might mean nothing to Max.

Why did I always presume the very worst? What was I afraid of? Was it the champagne that led me to fancy how the two might find love and friendship between them? Was two centuries not enough time to make old animosities disappear? It had been the case for me, even before our affair had sparked.

“Then stay a while and decide for yourself,” I suggested. “I have so much more of New York to show you.”

After another half hour of indulgence and laughter, it was as if nothing had ever happened between us. We were one again, and it delighted me to walk out of the restaurant on Maximo’s arm to wait for the carriage.

The crisp autumn air drew us together, and he kissed me over and over within the carriage. We both enjoyed each other’s sublime warmth during the ride home.

Entering the house, Michaelson greeted our arrival with a jovial tone.

“Mr. Van Duren called on you both while you were out,” he said. “He asked to wait, so I placed him the drawing-room with refreshment.”

My heart froze, and both men recognized the change.

Michaelson faltered in confusion.

“Was that correct, Mistress?”

“Quite right,” I assured him eventually. “Thank you.”

I took Maximo’s hand and stared into his eyes, finding that he genuinely didn’t understand what awaited him.

“It’s all right,” I assured him.

I led my husband the full ten feet to the drawing-room doors and allowed Michaelson to open one for us.

Standing at the fireplace with a glass of brandy in his hand, Duccio turned around to stare into Maximo’s eyes.