Her cry still echoed in his ears, the way it had broken against his skin, urgent, wild, and unrestrained. The last convulsive pull of her body around him had stolen his breath, dragged him under, shattered the leash he had fought to keep taut until the final moment. Now, as silence crept in and the fire of release dimmed to an aching ember, he remained motionless, every inch of him slick with sweat, every muscle drained of strength. Their limbs lay entangled, her leg curved over his hip, one delicate arm flung across his chest, her breath feathering warm against his throat. He still could not move.
She had given herself to him completely. No hesitation remained in her touch, no restraint in the way she had met him, urged him, and clung to him as if her life hung on the rhythm they had forged together. And now she lay beside him, soft and quiet and utterly spent, her body lax, her face turned toward his chest, her dark lashes brushing her cheeks. He drew in a deep breath, but it came ragged, uneven, torn from lungs still trying to catch their rhythm. His chest rose beneath her hand, and instinct compelled him to hold her closer. He turned, easing his weight with care, rolling just enough to shift her against him rather than away. One arm hooked firmly around her waist, drawing her in. He cradled her against his side, the hard edge of his forearm pressing low along her spine, his hand splayed across the curve of her hip.
Mine, he thought unbidden.
The word whispered through him, echoing in some corner of his soul he had long tried to silence. He pressed his lips to her damp brow, letting them linger there, then drew back and gently brushed strands of hair from her temple, his fingertips barely grazing her skin. That soft, instinctive touch undid him more than any climax ever had.
She nestled closer with a faint sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a murmur, simply the involuntary response of a woman no longer burdened by restraint. Her skin was flushed, cheeks still tinged with heat, the wildness of what they had just done leaving a fragile peace in its wake. He felt the beat of her heart against his ribs, not frantic now, but steady and sure.
He stroked her hair once more, then let his palm rest at her side, anchoring her as if he feared she might dissolve into air, or vanish entirely come morning. For long minutes, the only sounds in the room were the slow reordering of breath, the soft rustle of linen, the muted thud of his own heartbeat.
But as her breathing quieted and her body sank fully into slumber’s edge, something colder stirred within him. His jaw tensed. The stillness that settled into his limbs was not the peace of fulfillment. It was rigid, creeping, and bitter. His eyes remained fixed on the canopy above the bed, its faint silhouettes twisted in silver and shadow. He stared at it as though it might yield answers, as though it might grant absolution.
What have I done? He wondered with horror.
The question did not come in a whisper. It cut, sharp and deliberate, slicing through the haze of satisfaction. He had taken her innocence. That truth lodged in his chest like a stone. There had been no ceremony, no promise before God or witness. Only him, dragging her into his darkness, her virtue surrendered beneath a man with a cursed name and blood on his hands. She had not hesitated. But that did not absolve him.
I claimed her, he thought, cursing himself. I claimed her knowing that I could not allow her to become close to me.
The words were a brand against his conscience, no less scorching than her hands had been upon his back, urging him deeper, begging him not to stop. His desire for her had been absolute, unrelenting—but now that it had found its end, he felt the weight of what he had taken more heavily than the heat of any lust. He had bound her to him with more than physical chains. She was his now, and that placed her in the gravest danger.
He turned his head, watching the curve of her shoulder, the fine bones of her wrist where it rested against his chest. She looked so impossibly young like this, peaceful and unguarded. Her trust had been absolute. And what had he given her in return? A bed of secrets. A home hunted by unseen eyes. A man whose past would never be washed clean, no matter how tenderly he touched her now. She deserves gentleness. She deserves safety. His teeth clenched. He could give her pleasure. He could give her the devotion of his body, the ferocity of his protection. But he could not offer peace. Not while unseen threats lingered in the darkness. Not while danger crept closer with each unanswered question and each shadow flitting at the corners of his vision. He looked away again, jaw working.
The hunger had not diminished. Even now, his body throbbed with the memory of hers beneath him, of her cries, her tremors, her heat wrapping around him like a fever. But desire had never been the enemy. It was what came after—the reckoning—that he could not escape. She shifted against him, one bare leg sliding along his. A soft, unconscious movement. Trust, still. Blind, total trust. He exhaled slowly.
His arm tightened around her, pulling her more firmly to his side. He pressed a kiss to her hair, closed his eyes, and willed himself not to think of what came next or the price she might yet pay for loving him. But the thought lingered, cold and cruel and unshakable. He had given her passion. But what had he taken in return? And would she ever be safe again, so long as she remained his?
Chapter Twenty
The silent arrival of dawn, a somber and slender specter, crept past the rich damask hangings, casting its faint, grey impression upon the opposite wall, much like the tentative touch of an uninvited presence. The shadows had not yet fled, and the room remained cocooned in hush, the air still holding the remnants of heat and sweat and the wild ache of the night before.
Gabriel had not slept. His eyes had remained fixed on the dark canopy above, unfocused and unseeing, as if he might somehow extract meaning from its folds. Beneath his arm, Genevieve lay curled into him, the bare line of her back pressed to his chest, her hair a soft tangle against his shoulder, her breath calm, unhurried, and warm against his skin. Her small hand rested over his forearm, as though she feared he might vanish if she did not anchor him. And still, he could not breathe.
The hours had dragged in restless silence, each moment filled with memories. He thought about her confrontation in the study, the breaking of his restraint, and the way she had looked at him. There had been no fear or wariness. There was only hunger and trust. The way she had touched him and opened herself to him without flinching or doubt haunted him. He could feel her now, the heat of her skin still clinging to his, the memory of her body vivid against his own. Her breathing remained deep and even, untouched by the thoughts tearing through his mind.
She is mine now.
The thought struck him again, fierce and possessive, rising from some primal depth he did not recognize. He had claimed her. Not just her body, yet a danger of much deeper consequence, touching upon her trust and her entire destiny. He had taken what could not be undone, and in doing so, he had bound her to him in a way that made his chest ache. His fingers flexed against the sheet, the cotton damp and tangled around their legs. Each breath she took seemed to drive the truth deeper into him. Her vulnerability lay exposed in the softened lines of her sleeping face, in the trusting curve of her spine as she nestled closer in her dreams. And yet, it was that very trust which struck him hardest.
By making her mine, I have placed the target squarely upon her, he thought, mortified.
That singular truth unfurled within him. He had tied her fate to his own, and his fate, as he well knew, was anything but secure. She did not see it. Not fully. How could she? The woman who had met his hunger last night had done so with boldness, with fire in her blood, and yet now, in sleep, she seemed smaller, and impossibly fragile. Her body was marked by his touch, her future now altered by his recklessness. He could no longer lie still.
With the careful precision born of countless nights slipping through enemy camps, he moved slowly, gently extracting his arm from beneath her hand, easing back without a whisper of sound. She stirred once, a faint murmur escaping her lips, but she did not wake. He stilled entirely, breath held until her breathing deepened again, until she melted back into the warmth of the pillows. Only then did he slide free of the sheets, bare feet brushing the cold floor. The contrast jolted him, grounding him in the present even as his mind threatened to splinter.
Rising, he stood beside the bed, unmoving, his breath shallow, his pulse a thrum of unease in his throat. He turned sharply, unable to look at her any longer without feeling the full weight of what he had done. Moving to the washstand, he splashed water over his face, the chill biting through the sweat clinging to his skin. He did not look in the mirror immediately. Instead, he reached for his shirt, drawing it on with practiced speed, then worked trousers and braces into place with barely a sound. The clothing felt foreign on his skin, almost unwelcome after the intimacy of the night.
At last, he could not delay it further. He raised his eyes to the looking glass. The reflection that met him was not unfamiliar. He had long ago ceased reacting to the scarred, hollow-eyed man staring back. But this morning, something in that image struck him anew. Perhaps it was the evidence of her touch that still burned across his flesh. Perhaps it was the memory of her fingertips sliding along the ragged lines of his face, her expression not one of revulsion, but of wonder and tenderness.
She does not understand, he thought again with a soft sigh.
His hand tightened around the edge of the washstand. He needed air and distance to think. But even as he turned to go, he cast one last look toward the bed. She had not moved. Her lips were parted, her expression serene. She trusted him still. That truth twisted something inside him, raw and unforgiving. He crossed the room, each step silent. He did not look back again. Not because he did not want to, but because if he did, he might never find the strength to leave.
Later that morning, Gabriel did not raise his eyes as Genevieve entered the breakfast room. He had felt her approach with the undeniable shift in the atmosphere that heralded her presence. Even without looking, he knew that she stood near the sideboard, fingers brushing the handle of the teapot, her stillness betraying uncertainty. He marked the slight pause, the fractional hesitation, as if waiting for some signal, some acknowledgment. He gave her none.
Instead, he scratched another annotation onto the margin of the tenant ledger, deliberately opaque, as if his mind were entirely consumed by bushels of barley and roofing repairs. A nod sufficed. Just enough to maintain civility, not enough to invite intimacy. His gaze slipped past her without anchoring, and he lowered his head once more to the page, though he had not read a word in several minutes.
He reminded himself, again, that distance was the only safeguard left to her. That she must believe what had transpired in the privacy of his chamber had been driven by need and nothing more. If she believed otherwise, she might expect tenderness. She might begin to hope. And hope, in her case, could only lead to ruin.
