Her eyes opened. “Aren’t I?”
His jaw tightened. Not with anger. With control.
“You are one reason,” he said quietly. “Not the only one.”
The room drew closer, as if the walls leaned in to listen.
“Marcus—”
He stepped closer. Still not touching.
“You told me yesterday that I must be careful,” he said. “I told you I would.”
His voice softened.
“I keep my word.”
“That is not my fear.”
“Then what is?”
Her breath slipped free in a tremor. “I have seen what men like Fenwick do when they are pressed. How they twist the truth. How they punish what they cannot claim.”
His eyes darkened. “He will not punish you.”
“You cannot promise that.”
“Yes,” he said. “I can.”
The certainty in it, steel-wrapped and absolute, sent a weakness through her knees that she barely contained.
“You barely know me,” she whispered.
His expression gentled. Focused. Intent.
“I know enough.”
Her heart stuttered. “Enough?”
“I know you speak to Henry as though each note matters,” he said, closing the distance by a measured step. “I know you hide your fear until it frays at the edges. I know you have learned to move quietly so the world will not press harder.”
He moved one more step, until she felt the heat of him.
“And I know that when you look at my son with hope instead of pity, I remember I am not dead inside.”
Her breath caught sharply.
“Marcus…”
He stopped, as though he had checked himself a heartbeat before crossing a line he could not undo.
“Tell me what frightens you most,” he said, quieter now.
“That you will be hurt,” she whispered. “Or ruined. Or blamed. Or destroyed by a man who does not fight cleanly.”
Something flickered in him, a shadow of memory, then steadied.
“I have been struck down before,” he said. “I rose.”
