My pulse drums against my skin, too fast, too loud. I can still feel her against me, even though she’s no longer there—her skin chilled from the storm, her breath shallow but steady once warmth began to return to her fragile body. Holding her hadn’t been a decision, not in the logical sense. It had been instinct, the kind that eclipses thought, that demands movement, reaction, protection.
But the moment lasted longer than it should have.
I’d told myself it was only about saving her. That I’d peeled off my clothes and wrapped myself around her to return heat to her limbs, to keep her alive. But the way my hand settled against the dip of her spine, the way her head fit beneath my chin, the way her scent pulled me into a calm I hadn’t felt in years—it alltold a different story. One I didn’t want to admit out loud. One I refused to name.
The corridor feels narrower tonight, colder despite the fire that still burns behind the door I just slammed. My steps carry me down the winding stairs to the back of the manor where the scent of stone and old pine has always brought clarity, but it brings no peace now. The ghost of her fragrance lingers on my skin, in the folds of my clothes, embedded in my senses like a brand.
Even now, long after I’ve left her, I feel the echo of her warmth pressed to my chest, her breath brushing against my collarbone in unconscious trust. It’s maddening.
I shove open the door to the kitchen and move with the kind of quiet that comes only when rage and restraint hold each other in check. Mary’s nowhere to be seen, probably tucked away in the staff wing with her doors bolted and her tea steeped, as if hiding from the tension crackling like static in the air.
I grip the edge of the counter, fingers tightening against the worn wood. It creaks beneath the strain, an old friend bearing my weight without protest. I don’t scream. I don’t roar. I simply breathe and let the shame settle.
The shame doesn’t stem from the act of saving her. It’s what followed. The thoughts that crept in after she’d begun to stir. The warmth that spread not from necessity but from want. The image of her body, soft and vulnerable against mine, lighting something in me I had no business remembering—let alone desiring.
I remember Malek’s voice, colder now than it ever sounded in life, the words slithering through memory like coiled steel.
“Control is either complete, or it’s nothing. You cannot halfway leash the beast.”
He’d said it after a hunt. After I’d hesitated. After Isolde.
My stomach knots, old guilt intertwining with something far more dangerous—something new, raw, and entirely out of place. Wanting her isn’t safe. Not for her. Not for me. Not for the fragile balance that holds this cursed estate together.
But wanting her doesn’t stop because it’s inconvenient. It intensifies.
I try to lose the thought by pacing, by returning to the east wing and burying myself in books I haven’t touched in years. Still, her image forms behind my eyes every time I blink. The way her lips had parted as I leaned in. The way her breath had hitched. The way I could’ve kissed her and didn’t.
Because Iknew.
If I had—if I’d let myself fall into that moment—there would be no coming back.
Later, when night deepens and the manor has settled into an eerie hush, I find myself drifting toward the study. She’s made it hers without asking—claimed the space like she claims attention, effortlessly and with quiet grace. I pause in the doorway, watching her in the flickering firelight. She sits curled into the corner of the sofa, a knit blanket over her knees, pen in hand, notebook resting against her thigh. She doesn’t flinch when she notices me.
Instead, she sets the pen down with deliberate calm and looks up.
“You’re here,” she says, and her voice is warm but even. She offers no demand, just acknowledgement.
I nod, slow and cautious. “How are you feeling?”
“Well enough to be upright, and mildly mortified.” Her mouth curves, not quite a grin but something softer. “Though I suppose dying of embarrassment is better than hypothermia.”
I step further into the room, drawn by something I don’t dare name. “You shouldn’t have gone out during a storm like that.”
“I wasn’t aware it was a storm until it buried the path back.”
“You should’ve known better.”
“Perhaps,” she says, folding her hands neatly over her lap. “But I believe it’s your house staff’s responsibility to warn guests about local weather phenomena. Unless you expect all newcomers to develop clairvoyance.”
The corner of my mouth twitches, but I school it away before it becomes anything visible. Her logic, as always, is sound.
“Mary should’ve told you.”
She nods once, her eyes never leaving mine. “Maybe. Or maybe she hoped you’d speak to me yourself.”
There’s no accusation in her voice—only curiosity. Her tone is like a blade hidden in silk. I say nothing.
She gestures to the chair across from her. “You can sit. If you want.”
