He kissed her everywhere—her temple, her shoulder, the corner of her mouth. Each kiss spoke what his heart had shouted all these years:I found you. I missed you. I will never let you go.
Her fingers clawed onto his shoulders, her body clutching him so tightly he thought he might break—she felt so much better than even his wildest dreams. Faivish let out a low roar, the sound torn from his chest, one hand bracing her thigh, the other steady at her spine. She was heat and silk and trembling strength, and he drove into her slowly, deliberately—each thrust another vow, another piece of the life he meant to give her.
When she whispered his name—“Deeper.”—it undid him. He bent to her hand, caught her finger in his mouth, kissing the ring and then the skin around it until she shook. The rhythm between them built in silence—her breath in his ear, the fountain’s murmur beside them, his own groans ragged in her hair. The wind stirred, petals brushed against his calves like benedictions, and still he moved, his control fraying with every stroke.
Her body trembled around him, holding him so fiercely he thought he could never leave her again, not in this life or any other. And then he felt it—her tightening, the quake of her climax breaking through them both like lightning splitting the sky. She cried his name, and he held her through it, whispering in Yiddish, in English, in fragments of breath he couldn’t even shape into words, only devotion.
When the shudder passed, she slumped against him, glowing with heat, trembling in his arms. He stayed inside her, still, unwilling to surrender the bond. He wanted to fuse himself into her bones, never again to know the absence that had left him hollow for too dreadfully long.
She lifted her hand to his cheek, her thumb brushing the damp edge of his mouth. Her words struck like a blessing and wound all atonce: “I built my life around your absence. Let me build something new with you in it.”
Her voice broke, and he bent closer to catch it. “Don’t move.”
“I won’t,” he promised, his vow hoarse, absolute.
He brushed a strand of hair from her temple and kissed her there, his chest rising hard against hers.
“You were never the danger,” she whispered against him, and the words burned through his chest. “You were the place I didn’t believe I deserved.”
His own voice cracked. “You’re mine. You always were. I was only waiting for the day you’d let yourself believe it.”
Her tears glittered in the moonlight as she breathed, “I do now.”
He kissed her again—slow, reverent, tasting her, tasting them. No masks. No disguises. No more stolen corners of time.
When she told him she loved him, not hidden, not false, but in the open, Faivish trembled. “And I will never let them erase that.”
Petals drifted down around them, scraps of silk on stone. The courtyard fell utterly still, as though even the world bent to witness them.
He cradled her tighter, her head tucked into his shoulder. Her chemise clung in folds at her waist, her thighs bare against his hips, and yet she seemed not exposed buthome—safe where she belonged.
He bent to her hair, his murmur breaking softly into the night. “Mayn sheyns.” My beauty.
He felt the warm slip of her tear against his chest, joy this time, not grief.
They didn’t need words after that. They simply stayed, their bodies entwined, his hand tracing circles at her back in rhythm with the beat of her heart.
Two souls, no longer starved. No longer hidden.
By morning, the world might fall apart. But under the drifting petals, with the fountain singing its quiet hymn, they were whole.
Chapter Thirty-Two
The morning ofthe hearing came on pale and thin over St. James, and Maisie fastened the last glove button with hands that would not quite obey.Love last night. War today.She caught the faint trace of rose pomade on her skin and lifted her chin.
Downstairs, the Pearlers’ front parlor had turned into a campaign map. Westminster sketched wide across the pianoforte, routes penciled in dark strokes, names matched to times. The house breathed that particular hush before a storm.
Rachel stood at the window. “Five minutes. Keep the carriage moving. Do not let them pen you at the main gate to Eton.”
“Fave said the driver is trusted?” Maisie asked, voice steady enough.
“He is,” Rachel said, eyes still on the street. “He’ll take the court entrance, not the crowded street side.”
The bell chimed. A beat of stillness, then Fave appeared. “Mr. Alfie Collins. He’s ready.”
Ready? Alfie?
He stepped in, rain jeweled on his sleeve, briefcase tucked close—tired eyes, clear purpose. “I’ll stand with you,” he said quietly. “At the hearing.”
