What had happened to him in that moment?she wondered. Her heart squeezed painfully.
By the time the carriage rolled into the courtyard of Everthorne townhouse, Isabella could no longer contain the restless urgency clawing at her ribs. The instant the footman opened the door, she hastened out, marching into the mansion.
“Michael,” she called the butler, who had arrived to receive her, lifting her skirts as she strode in, “where is my husband?”
Michael shifted slightly, his discomfort plain. “He is in his chambers, Your Grace, and…”
“And what?”
“He asked,” Michael said carefully, “not to be disturbed.”
Isabella let out a short, incredulous laugh that startled Lady Kendrick behind her.
“Not to be disturbed?” she repeated. “Is he under the illusion that we live in separate continents rather than separate wings?”
“Your Grace, I did not?—”
“It’s quite all right,” she said, already marching toward the stairs. “He will be disturbed.”
Isabella ascended swiftly, her heart pounding harder with every step. Avoiding her? After everything? Absolutely not. If she had learned anything in the short weeks of their marriage, it was that her husband could bury his feelings with the precision of a soldier encasing himself in armor, and if she allowed him to retreat now, she knew he would sink behind that wall and never come out again.
She reached his chamber door, turned the handle without hesitation, and entered.
Cassian sat on the edge of the bed, his back to her. His hair was still damp from the cold air outside, and his sleeves were rolled to his elbows as though he had been pacing or struggling not to. The room was dim except for the low fire burning in the grate, casting long shadows across his broad shoulders.
“What happened out there, Cassian?” she asked quietly, closing the door behind her. “You left me.”
He did not turn. His voice was low, almost hollow.
“You are scared of me.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a declaration, one that sounded like he had physical evidence for it. However, it was the bluntness of the words that knocked the breath from her lungs.
“No,” she said, taking a step forward. “No, Cassian, I am not.”
“Yes,” he said, still staring straight ahead. “You are.”
“Cassian,” she whispered, “look at me.”
He did not.
So, she walked around the bed until she faced him, her palms cold, her heart hammering. When she saw his face, her chest tightened. He looked exhausted, shuttered, like a man who had walked into a storm and left pieces of himself behind.
“I am not afraid of you,” she said firmly. “How could I be afraid when you saved me? If anything, I’m the one who should be shoved away since I was seen in the dark with a man who wasn’t my husband.”
His jaw flexed, as though hating the image her words conjured, then he shook his head.
“You saw me.” His eyes lifted then, full of torment. “You saw what I am when I lose control.”
Realization dawned on Isabella, and she took a step forward, toward him.
“You defended me,” she insisted. “Perhaps you did not need to strike him the third time?—”
“Do not make excuses for me.” His voice cracked like ice. “I lost control. I always lose control. I warned you what darkness lived inside me, and tonight, you witnessed it.”
Her breath caught. “But Cassian?—”
“You deserve better than a man who cannot trust his own hands,” he said, rising abruptly. “Better than a man who could hurt you without meaning to. Better than—” He broke off and looked away. “You should stay away, Isabella. For your own sake. If you were wise, you would.”
