If he stayed the night… if he allowed himself, even briefly, to remember what they were together… perhaps the morning would look different to him.
And if it did not—if he remained determined to send her away—then she would at least have one final night with the man she loved.
One memory neither of them could erase.
Her hesitation must have shown, for Christian lowered his gaze, already retreating into that careful distance he had been building all evening.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “It was selfish of me to ask.”
“Wait.”
The word escaped before she could reconsider it.
Christian looked up again.
Fiona reached for his hand.
Relief and sorrow crossed his face at once, so swiftly they were almost indistinguishable.
She drew him into the room.
They did not speak—they let their bodies speak instead.
Christian set the candle upon the bedside table, its flame casting restless shadows along the walls.
Then he turned back to her, and his fingers found the ties of her nightgown. He undressed her with a reverence that made her eyes burn.
“Let me look at you,” he murmured, stepping back to take her in. “Let me memorise you.”
She stood before him, bare and vulnerable, and let him look. His gaze travelled over her like a caress—her face, her throat, the curves and hollows of her body. She saw his expression shift, soften, break open with something that looked like grief.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “I want to remember this. I want to remember exactly how you look, right now, in candlelight. I want to carry you with me.”
“Then carry me.” She reached for him, pulling at his shirt. “Carry me, Christian. Show me how you feel.”
He kissed her.
It was not like their other kisses. This was something else entirely. This was grief made manifest, love distilled into its purest form, a farewell that neither of them wanted to say.
His mouth moved over hers with aching slowness, learning her anew, savouring her, committing every detail to memory. His hands followed the same path, tracing the lines of her body. He touched her like she was precious, like she was sacred, like she was the only thing in the world worth touching.
She undressed him in turn, peeling away the layers of his clothing until he stood before her, bare and beautiful andmarked. The birthmark seemed to glow in the candlelight, wine-dark against his pale skin, and she pressed her lips to it as she had done so many times before.
“I love this,” she whispered softly. “I love every part of you. I will never stop loving you, Christian. No matter what happens. No matter how far apart we are.”
He made a sound that was half a groan, half a broken breath, and gathered her into his arms.
The bed was narrow—meant for a single occupant—but they had never needed much space. He laid her down on the white sheets and covered her body with his own, and for a long moment, they simply held each other, skin to skin, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“I don’t want to let you go,” he murmured into her hair. “Every instinct I have tells me to keep you here. To shut the doors and never let the world touch you again. But I cannot. I cannot watch them destroy you. I cannot be the cause of your suffering.”
“I would suffer more without you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know my own heart.”
She lifted his face, forcing him to meet her gaze.
