Isabella lifted her free hand slowly, as though approaching a frightened creature, and touched his cheek.
A sad smile fell on his lips.
“When I returned at twenty, the duchy was in disarray. My father had squandered what remained of our fortune and reduced himself to a shadow of the man he had been, drowning his guilt in whiskey.” He pressed his lips together. “He died a year later. Went to bed and did not wake. My grandmother… she spoke often of vengeance, only to warn me against it. She believed my father had paid for his failures with his life, and that no good could come of demanding more.” He exhaled slowly. “She did not want such a life for me. Nor did I wish it for myself.”
“Cassian,” Isabella whispered. “I am so terribly sorry.”
For a moment, he did not react. Then he closed his eyes and leaned into her touch.
A breath escaped him, quiet, almost imperceptible, yet it was the most vulnerable sound she had ever heard from him. She then pulled him into her arms, and he inhaled sharply, as though startled, but within seconds, his body softened against hers again. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying his face against her shoulder as she held him tightly, her fingers threading through his hair.
It was a tender, aching silence, and when he finally lifted his head, she noticed something in his gaze had shifted. Something softer.
Something dangerously close to trust.
The days that followed unfolded gently, as though the world itself had decided to cradle them in a rare pocket of peace.
“Sleeping?” Cassian asked as he entered her chambers, only to find her still drowsy beneath the covers.
“It’s snowing,” he said simply, climbing into bed beside her.
“I am aware.” She smiled.
He leaned down and kissed her again, slowly and searingly as if he were afraid that it would not last.
Isabella returned his kiss, and soon they were making love again. He sheathed inside of her, moaning hungrily before flipping onto his back and guiding her hips above him.
Throwing her head back, she allowed her hands to rest on his knees, embracing the marital pleasure that was opening new worlds to her. Her long hair ricked her back just above her buttocks, freeing her spirit along with the aching in her loins.
She enjoyed the new experience, allowing him to guide her until they fell side by side again, utterly spent and captivated in one another’s arms.
It was then that he turned to her with a rare smile, touching her nose with the tip of his finger. “Ride with me,” he suggested simply, and in no time, they were bundled in cloaks, gloves, and scarves, riding across the grounds without care for the freezing temperatures. Isabella’s cheeks stung with cold, but Cassian stayed close beside her, occasionally peering down to ensure she remained steady. Their breaths mingled in white puffs in the crisp morning air.
“It is beautiful,” she whispered.
He looked at her, and the faintest smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes,” he said, though his gaze rested entirely on her.
Later that day, he took her to his workshop, to do nothing but watch him work. It had been his idea, but Isabella could not find a thing to complain about.
“You made all these?” she breathed and looked around the space that smelled of woodchips.
It smells like Cassian.
She suddenly realized that his scent had been entirely composed of his most beloved hobby. His skin smelled like the rich aromas of fresh wood and varnish, something that intoxicated her.
He nodded somewhat sheepishly while rubbing the back of his neck.
“They are remarkable.”
“Try it yourself,” he said, handing her a small carving knife and a block of wood.
Her first attempt was clumsy, eliciting a soft laugh from him, so rare she blinked at the sound. He stepped behind her, guiding her hands gently between his, his breath ghosting her ear. Their fingers brushed often, and each time, a spark darted through her.
That night, by the fire, she lay beneath his arm, her head on his chest, their legs tangled beneath the blankets. He told her small stories about his time in Scotland. How he learned to fish in freezing streams, how he rode bareback across highland fields, how he carved his first wooden horse at age eighteen.
“Seems like you were happy there,” she murmured.
