He was not pushing her away for lack of desire.
He was pushing her away because he desired her beyond reason—and feared the loss of her beyond endurance.
“Christian.” She lifted her hands and framed his face, compelling him to meet her gaze. “Look at me. Are you listening?”
He nodded, barely.
“I am not going to leave you.” She spoke with quiet deliberation, as though setting each word in stone. “I am not going to wake one morning and find a monster where I have only ever seen a man. I am not going to recoil from your birthmark. Or your solitude. Or your brooding when storms rattle the windows.”
“You cannot promise—”
“I can.” She would not allow him to retreat into doubt. “Because I know myself. I know what I feel when I look at you. I know what stirs in me when you touch me. And I know—” her voice softened, but did not waver, “—that whatever scars you carry are not strong enough to drive me away.”
Lightning split the sky beyond the windows, flooding the room with stark white brilliance.
In its merciless glow, she saw the tears upon his cheeks. The tremor at his mouth. The fragile hope battling hard-learned despair.
“Fiona.” Her name broke from him, raw and shaken. “I do not know how to trust this.”
“You need not know how.” She rose onto her toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, tasting salt. “You need only try. You need only let me remain.”
He shuddered.
The tremor moved through him like something long imprisoned finally released. Then his arms closed around her—tight, almost desperate—and he drew her against his chest, burying his face in her hair.
He wept.
Not loudly. Not dramatically.
But with the quiet devastation of a man who had carried loneliness for too many years.
She held him.
Stroked his back.
Murmured soft, senseless comforts against his ear.
And let him cling to her as though she were the only steady thing in a world perpetually shifting beneath his feet.
Gradually, his breathing slowed. His hold loosened, though he did not release her entirely. When he lifted his head at last, his eyes were reddened but clearer—something unknotted within them.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “That was—”
“Honest,” she replied gently. “And long overdue.”
A faint, uncertain breath of laughter escaped him.
“I am not accustomed to speaking of such things.”
“I know.” Her thumb traced the line of his cheekbone. “But you may speak them to me.”
He turned his face into her palm and pressed a lingering kiss to its centre. The trust in the gesture nearly undid her.
“I wish you to see,” he said quietly.
“See what?”
Instead of answering, he reached for the tie of his dressing gown.
