The mantel clock ticked softly in the stillness, marking each precious second of June's peaceful sleep. Her chestnut hair had come loose from its pins, spilling across the cushion in waves that caught the firelight. The rise and fall of her chest beneath the blankets reassured him with each breath, though he knew her ribs pained her even in sleep.
He had never known fear like he'd experienced today. Not when facing down armed highwaymen on the road to Damascus, not during that terrible storm at sea off the Greek coast, not even when the first symptoms of his family's curse had manifested. Nothing compared to the cold, all-consuming dread that had gripped him upon realizing June was missing.
"She's gone to the ruins." His mother's words had struck him like a physical blow. The ancient Blake castle ruins—unstable, treacherous, claiming a piece of itself with each passing year.
He had run until his lungs burned, shouting her name with increasing desperation. The servants' lanterns had bobbed around him like bewildered stars as they spread across the grounds, but Dominic had outpaced them all, driven by a terror so profound it obliterated all else.
Please, he had thought with each pounding footstep.Please let her be safe. Please don't take her from me.
When he'd heard her voice—weak but alive—answering his calls, the relief had nearly driven him to his knees. He'd forced his way through the narrow opening in the ruins' lower chamber, torch held high, and there she was—pale, dusty, clearly in pain, but wonderfully, gloriously alive. The moment their eyes met across that crumbling chamber had altered something fundamental within him, some truth he had been avoiding since their first encounter.
Dominic pushed away from the mantel, crossing silently to where June slept. He knelt beside the chaise, studying her face in the firelight. A small smudge of dirt still marked her cheekbone, despite his attempts to clean away the dust of the ruins. Without thinking, he reached out, brushing it gently with his thumb.
June stirred slightly but didn't wake, her brow furrowing momentarily before smoothing again. Dominic withdrew his hand, unwilling to disturb her much-needed rest.
"I carried you home," he whispered, so softly the words barely disturbed the air between them. "I would have carried you forever if needed."
And he had carried her—through treacherous debris, across the moonlit grounds, up the grand staircase—refusing to relinquish her to anyone else's care. His arms had ached, but he'd barely noticed, focused only on the precious weight against his chest,the soft warmth of her breath against his neck, the undeniable miracle of her life continuing.
He rose and moved to the window, drawing back the heavy curtain to gaze out at the night. The moon illuminated the grounds, casting long shadows across the formal gardens and silvering the distant treetops. Somewhere beyond those trees lay the ruins where he had almost lost her.
Almost lost her.
The phrase echoed in his mind like a tolling bell. Today's terror had been temporary—a few hours of desperate searching, of imagining the worst. But what of tomorrow? Or next year? Or whenever the Blake curse finally claimed him, as it had claimed his father and grandfather before him?
What would her grief be like then?
He pressed his forehead against the cold glass, closing his eyes against the thought. He had seen grief close up—watched his mother waste away with it after his father's death, observed widows at funerals collapsing beneath the weight of their sorrow. The idea of June experiencing such pain, of watching her build a life with him only to have it ripped away, was unbearable.
She would recover, a selfish voice inside him argued. She's strong. Resilient.
But was that truly what he wanted for her? To recover from loving him? To piece herself back together after he'd shattered her world? To become another Blake widow, her youth spent caring for a dying husband?
Dominic turned back toward the room, his eyes finding June once more. In sleep, she looked younger, the sharp wit and fierce intelligence that animated her features softened into something vulnerable. She had already endured his illness at the inn, had tended him through fever and cough. But that had been a mere cold and nothing compared to what awaited him. What awaited her, if she remained by his side.
Sighing, he ran a hand through his hair. Dominic would not subject her to that fate.
Thirty-One
Awar raged within Dominic’s chest as he stood rigidly before the window overlooking the gardens in their bedchamber. Duty lashed against desire, protection against passion. He had carried June from those ruins, held her trembling body against his own, and in that moment understood with terrible clarity what losing her would feel like.
"Dominic?"
Her voice, soft with sleep, lanced through him like a blade. He did not turn, could not. If he saw her there—warm and alive, hair tumbled around her shoulders, amber eyes blinking away dreams—his resolve would crumble like the ancient ruins that had nearly claimed her.
"Dominic, what troubles you?" June's voice grew stronger, more alert. The rustle of bedclothes indicated she was sitting up. "You've been standing there for an age."
He forced his shoulders straighter, his spine stiffer. "You should rest. Your ribs…"
"My ribs are perfectly fine for a conversation," she countered. "And clearly one is needed."
She deserves better than this,he thought,better than a husband with one foot already in the grave.The realization felt like a physical blow. His mother had survived losing his father, but at what cost? Years of hollow smiles and empty rooms, of memories that cut like knives with each passing season.
He could not do that to June.
Drawing a steadying breath, Dominic turned to face her. Just as he'd feared, the sight of her nearly undid him. She sat propped against the pillows, his coat still wrapped around her shoulders despite the warmth of the room. A single tendril of hair curled against her cheek in the firelight. The intimacy of the scene—his wife in their bedchamber, awaiting his return to her side—struck him with brutal force.
"I believe we must part ways," he said, the words falling between them like stones.
