His head snapped up, eyes blazing. “Careful.”
“Or what? You’ll push me away as you do everyone else? Too late.” She knocked the book from his hands. “Your sister is coming home whether you wish it or not. You can either face her like the man I married, or hide in a bottle like a child.”
“The man you married is a killer.”
“The man I married is a survivor. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” He stood, unsteady. “I’ve taken lives, Marianne. More than I can count.”
“And saved at least one. Catherine’s.”
“Stop saying her name!”
“Why? Because it hurts? Good. Youshouldhurt. You should feel something beyond this… this numbness you’ve wrapped yourself in.” She caught his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her. “You’re not dead inside, Adrian. I know because I’ve felt your heart race when you touch me. I’ve seen you laugh. I’ve watched you care—despite yourself.”
“You don’t know—”
“I know enough.” She kissed him, tasting brandy and despair. “I know you’re mine. And I don’t give up what’s mine.”
He broke.
His arms came around her, crushing her against him as he kissed her with desperate hunger. But when he tried to deepen it—to turn it into something physical—she pulled back.
“No.”
“No?” He stared at her in disbelief.
“Not like this. Not when you’re drunk and trying to use me to forget.” She stepped back. “When you’re ready toremember—to feel, to talk to me instead of drowning yourself—I’ll be here. But not like this.”
She left him there, stunned and swaying, and returned to her own chambers for the first time since their wedding. Let him come when he was ready. If he ever was.
That night, she lay alone in the too-large bed, listening to the house settle around her. She’d pushed him hard—perhapstoo hard—but someone had to. Someone had to make him see he was more than his scars, more than his sins.
A soft knock broke her reverie.
“Come in.”
Adrian entered, bathed and changed, but still pale and drawn. He lingered by the door, uncertain in a way she’d never seen him.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly.
“For?”
“For drinking. For breaking things. For being a brute.”
“You forgot pushing me away and trying to use passion as an anaesthetic.”
His lips quirked slightly. “Those too.”
She sat up, studying him. “Are you ready to talk? Truly talk?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps.” He moved closer, stopping at the foot of her bed. “May I… may I stay? Only to sleep. I don’t want to be alone.”
The vulnerability in his voice broke her heart. She drew back the covers in invitation.
He climbed in fully clothed, lying stiffly beside her, unsure where to put his hands. She rolled her eyes and nestled against him, resting her head on his chest.
“Tell me about India,” she said softly.
