“I doubt it. I was merely trying to survive.”
“And now?”
He hesitated.
Her breath caught, awaiting his answer.
“Sometimes,” he said softly, his fingers sliding into her hair.
Isabella hadn’t known what she was getting into when she had accepted his proposal, but so far, she could say she was enjoying it.
Each night, he held her. Each morning, he reached for her again.
And yet, for all the tenderness, shadows lingered because three nights into their newfound closeness, she woke to a strangled sound beside her.
Cassian thrashed in his sleep, breath ragged, sweat beading across his brow. His hands curled as though fighting off invisible restraints, his chest rising too quickly, too sharply.
“Cassian,” she whispered, touching his face. “Cassian, wake up.”
He jolted as though burned, eyes wild for a moment before they focused on her. He sat up, breathing harshly.
“It is nothing,” he rasped.
“It is not nothing,” she whispered.
He shut his eyes and stretched out his hand to hold her.
“It was a bad dream; that’s all.”
She reached for him, wrapping her arms around his torso and pulling him against her. He resisted for a heartbeat, then melted into her embrace, his forehead pressing to her collarbone. She stroked his back, his hair, whispering soothing words until his breath steadied.
When he finally eased back down beside her, she kissed him softly, her fingers brushing his jaw.
“I am here,” she murmured.
His hand found hers beneath the blanket, squeezing once. Sleep claimed him gently that night, but Isabella lay awake for a long while after, her heart full and breaking all at once.
She was falling in love with her husband.
And she had a feeling, both thrilling and terrifying, that he was falling just as quietly, just as helplessly, with her.
The afternoon sun hung low over the manicured grounds of Everthorne Manor, casting long, golden shadows across the stone-walled corridors.
Cassian stood in his study, setting aside a heavy ledger with a sigh of relief. He had labored throughout the morning and the better part of the afternoon, driven by a desperate need to clear his schedule, because he was determined that no shadow of duty should fall upon the time he intended to steal for his wife.
Stepping into the hallway, he adjusted the cuffs of his dark coat, his gaze landing upon his butler, who was supervising the polishing of a crystal chandelier.
“Michael,” Cassian called out, his voice carrying the resonant authority that had become second nature since his return. “Where is my wife?”
The butler paused, offering a respectful bow. “Her Grace is in her chambers, Your Grace. She has remained there since the midday meal.”
Cassian’s brow smoothed. “Has she stepped out at all today? Into the gardens, perhaps?”
“No, Your Grace. She has not crossed the threshold of the house today.”
A faint smile touched Cassian’s lips, and without another word, he turned toward the grand staircase, taking the steps two at a time with the effortless grace of a man who spent more time in a workshop than a ballroom. He reached the heavy oak doors of Isabella’s chambers and knocked once, a sharp, decisive sound, before letting himself in.
The room hit him like a physical presence. The room breathed with the scent of her: a delicate, intoxicating mixture of fresh jasmine and the faint, sweet trail of soap. The afternoon light streamed through the tall windows, catching on the ivory silk of the draperies. It seemed as though the very air grew brighter when she was in the room, the shadows retreating from her vibrant presence.
