“I think,” she answered softly, “that I may already be there.”
He kissed her then—soft and sweet and achingly tender. It was a kiss of recognition, of acceptance, of two people finally seeing each other clearly and choosing not to look away.
When they parted, she rested her head against his bare chest, her fingers idly tracing the contours of the birthmark she had just claimed as beautiful. Outside, the storm still roared. Inside, there was only warmth and breath and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear.
“Stay with me tonight,” he murmured into her hair. “Not—not in that way. Not yet. But I do not want to be alone, not after… this.”
“I am not going anywhere.”
They moved to the leather settee near the hearth. He retrieved a blanket and wrapped it about them both. Fiona curled against his side, her cheek to his shoulder, his arm secure around her waist. He had drawn his nightshirt back on—whether for warmth or modesty, she did not know—but she could still feel the heat of him through the linen.
“Tell me about before,” she whispered. “Before you learned to call yourself a beast.”
He hesitated.
Then he spoke.
Of a mother who loved him in her way, yet could never quite conceal the flicker of uncertainty in her gaze.
Of a father who valued appearance above affection.
Of whispers behind doors.
Of tutors who kept their distance.
“And one boy,” he said at last. “A tenant’s son. He looked at the mark and asked only whether it caused pain.”
“Does it?”
“No.” A faint breath of something like wonder passed through him. “It never has.”
“They were fools.”
“They were everyone,” he said quietly. “Everyone… until you.”
She tightened her hold around him.
“Then let me be enough.”
He said nothing—but his arm drew her closer.
Eventually, despite the storm, sleep found them.
***
Grey dawn filtered through the tall windows when Fiona stirred. She found herself curved within the shelter of Christian’s body, his arm heavy at her waist, his breath warm against her hair.
She ought to rise.
She did not.
Instead, she turned in his embrace and studied his sleeping face. The tension had smoothed from his features. He looked younger. Softer. Almost at peace.
His eyes opened.
For a heartbeat, confusion. Then memory. Then something achingly gentle.
“Good morning,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.
