For a long moment, he did not answer. His gaze lingered on the quiet ruin.
“Now,” he said at last, “I imagine bringing our children here. Teaching them the names of the wildflowers. Telling them the stories I invented as a boy—about knights and dragons and princesses who rescued themselves. Watching them explore the ruins as I once did, but without the loneliness. Without the shame.”
Fiona’s breath caught.
“You want children?”
“I—” He hesitated, uncertainty flickering across his features. “I had never allowed myself to want them before. I feared passing on the birthmark… feared condemning another soul to the cruelty I endured. But with you…”
He turned toward her, his expression open in a way that still astonished her.
“With you, I find myself imagining a future I once believed impossible. A family. A house filled with laughter rather than silence. Children who are loved without condition, no matter how they come into the world.”
“And if one of them bears the birthmark?”
“Then we will teach them it is beautiful.” His voice hardened with quiet conviction. “We will raise them to see it as a mark of distinction rather than a curse. We will surround them with such love that the world’s whispers cannot wound them.”
Fiona felt tears sting her eyes.
This man—this remarkable, wounded, extraordinary man—who had been taught from the moment of his birth that he was monstrous, now sat beside her dreaming of children he would teach to love themselves.
“I want that,” she whispered. “All of it. Children and wildflowers and stories about princesses who rescue themselves. I want to grow old with you in this castle, watching the mist roll across the hills and the seasons change. I want to be your family, Christian. The family you should have had from the beginning.”
He drew her into his arms, holding her close against his chest. She felt the steady beat of his heart and the warmth of his breath against her hair.
“I love you,” he said softly. “I cannot say it enough. I fear I never shall.”
“Then do not merely say it.”
She lifted her face to his.
“Show me,” she murmured. “For the rest of our lives—show me.”
He kissed her then, slow and searching, and for a while the world slipped quietly away.
They lingered at the chapel for hours, talking, kissing, and simply existing together in the mist-softened stillness. Christian told her more about his childhood—moments of warmth as wellas sorrow. The cook who slipped him sugared biscuits when his mother was not looking. The old hound, long since gone, who had been his constant companion through the lonelier years.
“His name was Brutus,” Christian said, a fond smile touching his lips. “He was enormous, perpetually flatulent, and utterly devoted to me. He slept at the foot of my bed even when my mother forbade it. I think he was the first creature who ever loved me without reservation.”
“I wish I could have met him.”
“He would have adored you. He had excellent judgement in people.” Christian glanced at her with a teasing sidelong look. “Perhaps, when we are settled, we might acquire a dog for the castle. It has been far too quiet here for far too long.”
“I would like that.” Fiona smiled. “A whole pack of dogs, if you wish. And cats. And horses. And that biting donkey.”
“Bartholomew is not for the faint of heart.”
“Neither am I.”
He laughed then, the sound echoing warmly against the ancient stones, and for a moment everything was perfect.
But perfection, Fiona knew, was a fragile thing.
The walk back to the castle felt longer than the walk out.
The mist had begun to lift, revealing glimpses of the world beyond—the rolling hills, the distant gleam of the sea, the greymass of Thornwick rising against the sky. Fiona’s legs ached from the long ramble, but she found herself reluctant for the journey to end. When they reached the castle, reality would be waiting.
She had to tell him. She could not delay it any longer.
