He inclined his head, a gesture surprisingly reverent. “Until tonight, wife.”
“Until tonight, husband.”
She turned toward the stairs, every step feather-light and full of sparks.
Behind her, she felt his gaze follow her—not with hunger alone, but with something deeper.
Tonight.
At last.
The waiting was over.
Chapter Twenty-One
The house had long since gone quiet.
Servants dismissed, lamps dimmed, London’s hum softened to a distant murmur. Rothwest House felt suspended in a hush that was neither night nor morning but something between—something waiting.
Celine stood at her dressing table, brushing her hair with slow, steady strokes. She had dismissed Sally early. She didn’t need help preparing for bed.
She needed time to breathe.
Time to understand that tonight felt different—not like a deadline reached, not like a promise due, but like stepping through a door she had been walking toward all her life.
A soft knock.
Not loud. Not urgent.
But decisive.
Her heart lifted and tightened in the same breath. “Come in.”
The door opened, and Elias stood on the threshold.
He had made some effort toward formality—dark trousers, an open white shirt—but the effect was nothing polite. The undone collar exposed the strong column of his throat, the faint shadow along his jaw, the quiet power coiled beneath the surface. His hair was slightly mussed, as though he’d run his hands through it more than once.
He looked at her the way a man looks at dawn after a long night.
“Celine.”
Just her name—spoken like a confession.
She set her brush down. “You came.”
“I told you I would.”
His voice was low, steady. But she could feel the tension vibrating through him—something contained, controlled, but only barely. And yet… behind it, something gentler. Something like awe.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
Neither moved toward the other.
Not yet.
He searched her face as one might study a painting before daring to touch it. “If you have even the faintest hesitation—”
“I don’t.”
