Her pulse quickened.
She entered.
Christian stood before the fire, his back to her. He wore only a dressing gown—dark blue velvet, loosely tied—and his feet were bare against the carpet. His hair hung loose around his shoulders, a dark curtain that caught the firelight and gleamed like silk.
He turned at the sound of her entrance.
“Fiona.” Surprise roughened his voice. “It is past midnight.”
“I could not sleep.” She closed the door behind her. “The storm.”
“Yes.” His gaze flicked toward the rain-ravaged windows. “It is a violent one.”
Silence settled between them, charged and fragile.
She was acutely aware of her appearance—hair braided over one shoulder, nightgown visible beneath her robe, feet bare in borrowed slippers. It was improper. It was scandalous. It was exactly where she wanted to be.
“You should return to your chamber,” he said tightly. “If anyone were to see you here—”
“Everyone sleeps.” Her voice was steady. “And I would not leave even if they did not.”
“Fiona.”
“Stop.” She lifted a hand. “Stop protecting me from yourself. Stop behaving as though what lies between us is something to befeared. I am weary of it. Weary of wanting you while you hold yourself apart.”
His jaw flexed.
“You do not understand.”
“Then make me understand.”
She crossed the space between them.
Close enough to see the rapid beat at his throat.
“Tell me what you fear.”
“That I will hurt you.” The words burst from him. “That I am not made for this. I have lived alone too long. I do not know how to give what you deserve.”
She did not retreat.
“You have seen my mark,” he continued hoarsely. “You have called me beautiful. But you do not know what it means to belong to someone like me.”
“Someone like you?”
“A man who has been told all his life he is wrong. Unfit. A thing to be hidden.”
“You are none of those things.”
“You say that now.” He turned toward her, anguish naked in his eyes. “But one day you will tire of my silences. Of my darkness. And you will leave. And I—”
His voice failed.
“I would not survive it,” he whispered. “To have you, and then to lose you. It would destroy me.”
Fiona’s heart cracked open.
This man—this fierce, wounded, impossible man—had not built walls because he felt nothing. He had built them because he felt too much. Because hope, once kindled, threatened to consume him.
