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She curled her fingers into the front of his shirt, feeling the hard line of him beneath the fabric, the steady beat of his heart beneath her palm. He felt like iron held barely in check.

“You do not need to handle me as if I might shatter,” she murmured, not as challenge, but confession.

He lifted his head enough to meet her eyes. “I am not afraid you will break,” he said softly. “I am reminding myself not to rush you.”

Something inside her softened, not because she needed protection, but because he chose to offer it anyway. “I have shared a man’s bed before,” she said quietly. “I know what it is to be touched.”

His expression did not ease. Instead, his gaze deepened, dark and intent. “I know,” he replied. “And still, I will not take from you as though I am owed it.”

“Then do not take,” she whispered against his mouth. “Share.”

The word seemed to settle into him. He came onto the bed beside her, settling between her knees, but instead of closing the distance as she half expected, his hands moved first, slow, deliberate. His fingers found the lacings at the front of her gown, loosening them with quiet care, as though even that small act required permission. The fabric eased, and he slipped the dress from her shoulder. His fingers caressed the newly exposed flesh, his hand warm against her bare skin.

Her breath caught.

He eased the gown from her, then removed her shift. His hands followed the fall of the fabric, brushing her skin as it slipped away. Not searching, not claiming, but learning.

She answered in kind, her hands moving to his waistcoat, pushing it from his shoulders. It fell heavily to the floor, and she drew back just enough to pull his shirt loose.

That was when she saw it. The scar that marked his right shoulder. The flesh had been cut open to remove the bullet she had placed there, and though time had closed the wound, it had not erased it. The mark remained, a muted red and violet against his skin. It pulled at her without thought, her hand lifting, hovering for a breath before she touched it, carefully, as though the pain might still live beneath her fingertips.

Her breath softened. “I am so sorry,” she whispered.

The words were not dramatic or heavy with explanation, but they carried weight for the wound, the past, and the part she knew she had played in it.

He stilled beneath her touch. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then his hand came up, covering hers where it rested against his shoulder, not to stop her, but to hold her there.

“It did not pain me this morning,” he said. “Or all that much during the battle.”

She looked up at him, something tightening in her chest at the simple admission.

Her thumb traced the edge of the scar once more, softer now, not apology alone but acknowledgment. “You should not have borne it,” she said.

His gaze held hers, steady. “And yet I did.”

The words might have ended the moment. Instead, they deepened it. She leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to the scar, not out of pity, but something closer to reverence. A silent recognition of what he had endured, and what he had become.

His breath shifted. That was when she felt it, a change in him. The quiet restraint he had held so tightly began to loosen, not in force, but in surrender.

He slid his hand from hers to her waist, drawing her closer, and this time he did not stop himself. His mouth found hers again, deeper now, no longer holding back. She rose to meet him, the answering heat in her body immediate and undeniable.

Where he touched, warmth spread—stronger now, less cautious, though never careless. His hands moved along her with growing certainty, giving in to what they both wanted.

She felt the strength in him, the tremor beneath it, the way he still discovered her even now, even as the moment deepened.

Her hands moved over him in return, no longer tentative, her body answering his with equal clarity. When she drew closer, it was not from uncertainty, but from wanting.

She reached for him, tracing his nipples with the backs of her hands, wringing a groan from deep in his throat. He broke their kiss and spread her thighs, his palms running feverishly up and down her flesh, feeling the textures of her skin, and finally the mound of tight curls at her apex. His fingers touched her, probed, and sank deep.

She released a muffled cry, the muscles of her stomach clenching, convulsing. Her body was one entire nerve on the brink of climax. She moaned his name, heard the desperation in her tone, but she did not care.

He moved closer, positioning himself. “Sweet heavens, I want in,” he said through clenched teeth.

“Then do not hold back,” she pleaded breathlessly.

Her heart pounded hard. She trembled from head to toe.

When he raised his head and looked at her, she read more hunger in his dark eyes than she had ever seen before. His hands touched her, parted her tender flesh, and he entered her in one long stroke.