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More than difficult. He’d told her he thought he was losing his mind. Or his soul.

Right now, he had the look of the damned.

“The doctors don’t know,” he corrected. “I have a theory.” His mouth twisted. “A story. A nightmare, perhaps.”

“Tell me.” She could hear her own heart. He looked at her, and something seemed to snap behind his eyes. Smothering a groan, he folded over her. The ridge of his brow ground against her forehead. She felt herself sinking into the cushion, his weight bearing down, his breath featherlight. At that moment, she wanted to sink with him forever.

He ripped away, pushing his back into the corner of the sofa.

“What if I didn’t break my leg?” His gaze seemed to pour into her. “A concussion, bruising, yes. But no shattered pelvis, no ununited fracture of the femur. What if . . . my mother had the surgeon cut me anyway? What if she had him operate for no other purpose than to create this, this pain? I can feel something, like a thorn. So sharp, so . . .”

He gritted his teeth. She was afraid a single word would silence him. She took his hand and placed it on her chest. Her heart was pounding a refrain.

I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.

“What if my mother gave her ruby earrings to the surgeon? What if he cut into my hip and put one inside? One red teardrop.” Every little muscle in his jaw stood out. “It makes perfect sense. Monstrously perfect sense. Which is no sense at all.” He approximated a laugh. “I’ve searched for hospital records, correspondence between my mother and the surgeon. I’ve searched for those infernal earrings. I’ve considered”—his voice grew hoarse—“I’ve considered asking a doctor to cut me open. To look.”

Her gasp slipped out. His gaze slid over her hungrily, as though he craved reaction. As though he wanted her to revile him.

“What if there’s nothing? What if I have myself hacked apart for no reason?” His voice dwindled.

His face was perfect agony. Denials surged, nearly tripped off her tongue. She wanted to reject his anguish, his theory, everything that hurt him.

She swallowed hard. “You do have a reason.”

“The earring.” His head jerked. “You think it’s there?”

“I don’t know. The pain is there. Pain is a reason. Confusion, fear—those are reasons. Taken together, they motivate most of human behavior.” She paused. “Along with greed, I suppose. And pride.”

“Now you’re naming sins.” His eyes began to glitter strangely. “Are those mine?”

She felt her color rise. “I’d begun to speak more generally.”

“Rather dark view,” he murmured. His smile was less awful to behold.

“I wasn’t finished.” Her breath whooshed out. “There’s enough pain in this one world to spread across a hundred others. But you can act out of something else instead. You can find other reasons, for different actions. Hope.” Her pulse crashed in her ears. “Love.” She swallowed the lump that had re-formed in her throat. “You can open your heart.”

“Metaphorically.” His smile was . . . his smile. Crooked. Humorous. His gaze slitted, speculatively. “My heart . . . instead of my hip.”

She swallowed harder. “No saw.”

“I didn’t want to bring you into this nightmare,” he whispered.

“We’re not going to live in a nightmare, or in a pretty dream either.” She stared into his eyes. “We’re going to live in the world together, the beautiful, terrifying world.”

He nodded. She felt as though her heart was beating into his hand.

He shut his eyes, and when they opened, his lashes were spiky with damp.

“The poet John Keats had consumption.” His conversational tone jarred with his expression. “One night, he saw blood on his pillowcase. He said that was his death warrant.”

“And?”

“He died.” There was a slight hitch in his voice. “At twenty-five, in Italy.”

She looked away. It wasn’t in her power—or anyone’s—to tell him what course Claud’s disease would take.

His hand crept higher, fingertips brushing her collarbone.