She would not fall alone.
The Prince would see it. That lecherous puppet master would count this as a victory. His little game played out. The noble, icy Fitzwilliam Darcy, finally tumbled by a woman. It would be proof enough, perhaps—proof that Darcy was, in the eyes of the court, a man like any other. Tempted. Mortal. Flesh and blood.
And no longer a worthy source of entertainment for a royal hedonist. The Prince might finally keep his promise… the scandal would fade. His name might be restored.
And he—he could go home. To Pemberley. To his birthright.
But not alone. Not this time.
He could bring her with him. Hand in hand. Queen of the place he had once been forced to leave in disgrace. The final piece of his shattered world made whole—his ruin and his redemption, wrapped in the same arms.
Her hands threaded into his hair and pulled him closer.
“I love you,” she whispered, voice soft as prayer, fierce as battle. “I love you, Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
The words struck him like a musket ball.
Clean through. No warning. No armor. No breath.
His hands froze where they rested—gripping her waist, her ribs, her heartbeat.
His lungs refused to work. His vision tunneled.
He lifted his head slowly, as if surfacing from a dream he had no wish to wake from.
And then—he pulled away.
Not gently.
He staggered upright, every motion abrupt, disjointed. His limbs no longer obeyed the rhythm of desire, only the jolt of panic pounding in his chest.
And he walked.
Blindly. As far as the room would allow.
The moment her voice broke the silence, soft and uncertain, he flinched.
“What did I do?”
He did not look back.
She was still seated, he could tell by the sound of her voice—muffled slightly by the press of the cot, by the distance between them—but her hurt rang through the question as clear as any bell. A tremor of disbelief, of aching confusion.
“Nothing,” he said at last, his voice unsteady. “Lord help me, you did… everything right. That is the problem.”
Behind him, he heard the creak of the cot as she shifted. Then her feet on the floor. Then a single step toward him.
He held out a hand, sharply, as if warding off a blow.
“Please!” he choked. “Do not come closer.”
She halted. He could feel her stillness behind him like heat. Silence stretched between them until she spoke again—quieter, gentler.
“Is it… because I said I loved you?”
His eyes closed. His throat worked once before he found the words.
“It is because I cannot hurt you.” He gripped the edge of the shuttered window in both hands, his knuckles white. “No matter what you believe now, what you might convince yourself you understand… if I take what you offer—if I give in, indulge my own pleasures—you will be the one to suffer.”
