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“I’m ready,” she says.

And beneath the plainness of it, there’s something else. Small. Rare. Meant for me. A single crumb of mercy placed in my hands, as if to say: There. Take it. Don’t make me regret it.

So I take a chance.

I reach for her hand before sense can argue me out of it, carefully as if she might startle. I lift it to my mouth and kiss her knuckles, slow enough to be purposeful, soft enough to be decent.

“Thank you,” I murmur against her skin. I lift my eyes to hers, and I let the truth show. “For doin’ this with me. For… givin’ me a chance.”

She’s all stillness and pride then, chin high as though she means to cut me down for the audacity of it.

And then her mouth betrays her. The faintest curve, quick as dawn breaking through cloud. A smile she tries to swallow, and fails.

“James,” she warns, but her tone has lost its teeth.

“Ellen,” I breathe, because I’ve no other defence.

With a boldness that makes my pulse trip, she threads her fingers around my arm again and settles herself at my side.

I’m greedy for the thought of more days like this. Hopeful, too, that this is the first mercy of many.

I adjust my grip, more possessive than I’ve any right to be, and guide her through the doorway into the day beyond.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

JAMES

Outside, the day waits in pale grey, the sky a hard wash of cloud with the sun only a rumour behind it.

We walk the lane away from the house, beyond the last stone wall, into open ground where peat and salt ride the wind, and everything loud and crowded falls away, until it feels like there’s only the road, the sea beyond it, and the faint pull of her fingers at my sleeve.

We leave the main path and cut through a stand of trees, the ground damp underfoot, the scent of moss and cold earth rising around us. The wind is gentled here, caught and broken by trunk and branch.

Ahead, the track narrows, drawing the rest of life away until only the two of us remain, moving through a pocket of hush.

This is a place I’ve known since I was a boy. A shallow hollow tucked into the land. Sheltered from the worst of the coastal bite, protected by rowan and stone, the sort of spot you’d swear the fae themselves might choose for a meeting. It’s always felt like mine alone.

One of my best-kept secrets, held back for a moment like this.

Ellen slows as the hollow opens before us.

In the centre, beneath the low-spreading rowan, a blanket has been laid. A basket sits beside it. A lantern—blackened wrought iron, clean glass—rests like a quiet sentinel, wick ready, though the day is still bright enough we won’t need it.

Robert and Alex have done well.

Ellen takes it in slowly, and I catch the small hitch of her breath.

She masks it quickly, of course. She’d mask a wound if she thought it might show a weakness.

Her attention drifts to the basket. “So this is what our friends conspired over.”

“It’s just a wee outdoor meal,” I reply dryly.

She looks at me like she might slap me.

“I ken what it is.”

“Fair enough,” I say, fighting a smile. “Then we’re off to a strong start.”