“You were recovering from saving her life.”
He set the wolf down carefully on the mantle, placing it precisely in the centre as if its position mattered deeply. “She looked at me, for a moment, as though I were whole.”
The callback to their earlier conversation made Marianne’s chest tight with emotion. She moved to him, her green silk whispering against her skin—she’d followed his directive about what to wear beneath it, and the knowledge made her burn. She cupped his scarred face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.
“You are whole. Different than before, changed, but whole.” She traced the scar with her thumb, feeling the raised tissue, the story written on his skin. “This doesn’t diminish you.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No. It proves you are capable of a love so profound you would die for it. That is not broken,” she whispered, her palm warm against his cheek. “That is beautiful.”
His eyes closed at once, his breath unsteady. He pressed into her hand like a man starved of touch, his lips brushing her wrist. “I don’t deserve you,” he rasped, voice hoarse.
“You do,” she said softly.
When he led her to bed, it was not with urgency. He touched her as though time itself bent to his will. Every ribbon loosened, every button slipped free was accompanied by the press of his mouth to newly revealed skin. Her shoulder, her collarbone, the swell of her breast—all tasted, all worshipped.
The cool night air kissed her flesh where his hands stripped her bare, and then his lips followed, warm and insistent. He murmured against her skin, broken words that trembled between worship and confession: how her love undid him, how her presence both steadied and shattered him.
When she lay before him, flushed and bare, he did not rush. His touch was deliberate, reverent, tracing slow paths along her thighs before finding the tender place that made her tremble. He lingered there, coaxing soft sounds from her lips, until she arched toward him in helpless surrender. He bent then, pressing kisses to her stomach, her hip, the delicate curve of her thigh, his hand never ceasing its gentle rhythm until her cry broke the stillness.
“Beautiful,” he murmured against her skin, his breath warm where it touched her most tender places. His mouth replaced his hand, his tongue moving with exquisite precision, each stroke stealing her breath until her fingers tangled in his hair and she broke apart beneath him, trembling and gasping his name.
He did not stop. He coaxed her again with lips and hands, drawing wave after wave of pleasure from her until she was undone, every breath a plea, every sound his name.
Only then did he bare himself, his body powerful and taut with restraint. He pressed against her, entering her slowly, with care that made her gasp. The sensation overwhelmed her—too much and not enough all at once—and yet it felt inevitable, like something long promised.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice low but commanding.
Her lashes lifted. In his face, she saw no mask, no armour—only raw emotion laid bare.
“See me. All of me.”
“I see you,” she whispered, her eyes bright with tears, and drew him down into a kiss that was half sob, half vow.
He moved then, deep and deliberate, each motion a blend of strength and tenderness. The rhythm built slowly, inexorably, their bodies finding a wordless harmony. Her hands clutched at his back, her voice breaking on his name as pleasure crested once more. His answering groan was rough and unguarded, his release following hers in a shuddering rush.
For a long while, they lay entwined, breath mingling, skin slick with warmth. Her palm rested over his heart, feeling its steady rhythm beneath her fingers.
At last, he spoke, his voice a murmur in the dimness. “It was a good notion. The Weatherbies.”
Her head lifted. “Truly?”
He swallowed, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Catherine needs society. And perhaps... perhaps I am finished with hiding.”
She pressed her lips to his chest, tasting salt and skin, her smile soft. “That is all I ask.”
“You ask for everything.”
“And you give it, even when you don’t mean to.”
Silence settled again, softer this time. She felt the slow rise and fall of his chest, the solid weight of him around her. Just before sleep claimed them both, he whispered into her hair, his voice rough but certain:
“The wolf protects what’s his. Even from himself.”
Chapter Twelve
The invitation arrived with the morning post, borne upon a silver salver as though it were a weapon rather than mere paper and ink.
