“No? Then what is he?”
Marianne considered the question, thinking of the man she’d married—his scars both visible and hidden, his careful control that masked such deep pain, the way he held her like she might disappear. “A man carrying too much guilt and pain who doesn’t know how to set it down.”
Catherine moved closer and touched Marianne’s arm gently, the contact brief but warm. “Help him. Please. I can’t—he won’t let me. But you... He looks at you as though you are air and he’s drowning.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good.” Catherine turned toward the door, resting her hand on the polished brass handle. She paused, glancing back with afaint, rueful smile. “I am glad he married you. Even if it was in typical Adrian fashion—impulsive and absolute.”
When the door closed softly behind her, silence pressed in. The breakfast room, so bright and orderly, felt strangely hollow. The morning she had expected—mundane, domestic, perhaps even affectionate—had splintered into something far more fragile. Catherine’s words lingered like smoke:Using me as a wall between himself and the world.
Was that what she was? Another barrier between Adrian and society? The thought settled cold in her stomach.
She found him in his study—a room steeped in shadow and the scent of tobacco, leather, and solitude. He stood at the tall window, his back to her, shoulders tense beneath his black coat. Morning light cut through the glass, throwing his shadow long across the Persian rug.
“You shouldn’t have interfered,” he said without turning. His tone was even, too even—the kind that masked fury.
“You were about to say something unforgivable to each other.”
“Perhaps it needed saying.”
“Perhaps. But not in anger.” She stepped closer, her voice calm though her heart beat unevenly. In the reflection on the window, she saw his face, rigid, his control stretched thin. “She’s hurt, Adrian. You shut her out.”
“I protected her.”
“From what? From knowing her brother is human? From seeing you struggle?”
He turned then, so suddenly she flinched. His face was a study in torment, his eyes bright with pain. “From knowing what I became. What I did in India. The blood on my hands.”
“She knows,” Marianne said quietly. “Not everything, perhaps, but enough. She’s heard the whispers.”
“Whispers,” he echoed, his laugh hollow. “Whispers are merciful. The truth is not.”
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing, voice unravelling with each word. “You already know the worst of it. What I did there, what I became."
“Adrian—”
He cut her off sharply. “She’s right, you know. Catherine. I married you too quickly. I saw you at the opera and became obsessed. Had to have you. Didn’t matter how.”
Understanding dawned, and with it, a flash of anger. “Are you trying to drive me away?”
“I’m trying to be honest.”
“No,” she said softly, stepping forward. “You’re trying to wound me before I can wound you.” Her hands rose to his face, cool against the heat of his skin, forcing his gaze to meet hers. “Too late. You’re already attached. So am I. Whatever you were in India—whatever you did—it doesn’t change what we are now.”
His voice cracked, stripped of its usual armour. “And what are we?”
“Married,” she said simply. “Bound. Learning how to be partners.”
“I don’t know how to be a partner. I only know how to possess—or to be alone.”
“Then you’ll learn. We both will.” She kissed him, steady and sure, an act of faith more than passion.
He pulled her close, as though he feared she might vanish if he loosened his grip. His heart thundered against hers, his breath ragged. “Catherine hates me.”
“Catherine loves you,” Marianne murmured. “She simply doesn’t know how to reach you anymore.”
“I don’t know how to let her.”
