June went utterly still. "I beg your pardon?"
"Our marriage was a mistake," he continued, each syllable measured and cold. "A hasty solution to a temporary problem."
She sat up straighter, the quilt falling away as her cheeks flushed with angry color. "And you've determined this now? After carrying me from those ruins as though I were precious? After tending me as though I mattered?"
"An instinctive response to danger," Dominic replied, deliberately looking past her shoulder rather than meeting those intelligent eyes that saw too much. "I would have done the same for anyone."
"Liar."
The single word, delivered with quiet certainty, shook him more than any angry tirade could have done.
"Why are you doing this?" June demanded, wincing slightly as she shifted position too quickly for her bruised ribs. "If you truly wish to end our marriage, I deserve to know why."
Dominic moved to the fireplace, needing distance, needing something to occupy his hands. He took up the poker and jabbed unnecessarily at the logs, sending sparks swirling up the chimney.
"I would rather you hate me now than encourage deeper feelings between us," he said to the flames. "Feelings that can only lead to pain."
"That is not an explanation," June countered. "That's a cryptic pronouncement worthy of a fortune-teller."
Despite everything, a corner of his mouth twitched at her sharp tongue. How quickly he had grown to treasure her wit, her refusal to accept nonsense even from a duke.
"I told you before our marriage that I have no intention of siring children," he said, setting the poker back in its stand with deliberate care. "I mentioned my family's history."
"Yes, this mysterious 'Blake curse' that supposedly dooms all Blake men to early deaths." June's voice held a note of frustration. "Yet you offer no details, no explanations. Your mother doesn't behave like a woman expecting to lose her son imminently."
Dominic's head snapped up. "What has my mother said to you?"
"Nothing specific. But she speaks of our future as if it stretches decades ahead. She mentions grandchildren." June leaned forward, her eyes bright with challenge. "Tell me the truth, Dominic. What are these feelings you're so determined to prevent?"
He turned away sharply, unwilling to speak the words that pressed against his throat. To name them would make them real, would make them impossible to deny. And he must deny them, for her sake.
"It doesn't matter," he said finally. "What matters is that I cannot give you what you deserve—a husband who will grow old beside you, children who will carry your blood into thenext generation. I cannot promise you anything beyond a few uncertain years."
"So you presume to decide for me?" June's voice hardened. "You've appointed yourself the sole arbiter of what I deserve, what I should want?"
"June—"
"No." She cut him off with a single sharp syllable. "You don't get to make that choice for me, Dominic."
"I'm trying to protect you," he said, a note of desperation creeping into his voice despite his best efforts.
"From what? From loving you? From being loved in return?" Her words hung in the air between them, dangerous in their directness.
Dominic turned back to her, his face a careful mask. "There are worse fates than being a duchess without a duke's constant presence. You would have freedom, resources, position?—"
"Stop." June held up a hand, her face undergoing a transformation that pierced him to the core. The open vulnerability, the righteous anger—all of it receded like a tide, leaving behind the cool, detached woman he'd first encountered at Stone Manor. Her spine straightened, her chin lifted, and her eyes—those expressive amber eyes that had softened so wonderfully in recent days—turned to polished stone.
"Do you love me?" she asked, her voice clipped and precise.
The question struck him like a physical blow. Three small words that demanded everything he was fighting to deny.
"It doesn't matter," he repeated, unable to meet her gaze.
"I see." June nodded once, sharply. "Very well."
Those two words—delivered with such flat finality—felt like the closing of a door that could never be reopened. Dominic stood frozen, having achieved exactly what he'd set out to do, feeling nothing like the victory he'd told himself was necessary.
She had agreed. She would leave. She would be spared the prolonged agony of watching him deteriorate, of becoming a nurse instead of a wife, of being left alone too soon with nothing but bitter memories.
