He led her not to the scandalous room they both knew too well but to his chamber. It smelled like him, and the bed loomed before her like an inviting temptation. Blaise only let go of her hand to shut the door.
“I am about to do something I have never done in my life, Iris. I am about to apologize properly.”
Her throat tightened. Her fingers, of their own accord, twisted in her skirts.
“I see,” she said.
“No,” he answered softly. “I do not think you do.”
He lifted a hand, slowly, as if giving her time to move away. When she did not, he touched his knuckles lightly to her cheek.
“I have hurt you,” he said. “And not only because I walked away. Long before that, I treated you as if you were a game I intended to win, a puzzle I could solve. I told myself it was what you wanted, because you did want the things I did to your body. But I never paused to ask what you wanted for your life. For your future.”
She wanted to protest, to say that she had known what she risked when she stepped into his room that first time; that she had taken enough control to satisfy the martyr inside her. But the words tangled.
“Blaise—”
“I am not finished,” he said. “Allow me to be thorough in matters of the heart as I am in matters of business.”
Her lips trembled, but she nodded.
“I made you an offer,” he said. “One, you were right to refuse. I offered to keep you here in a gilded cage, to make you my mistress and call it generosity because I would have given you silk instead of chains. It was arrogance. Cowardice, too. I wanted your body and your laughter and the way you look at me, butI did not want to give up anything solid in return. Not my freedom, not my reputation, not my control.”
His thumb brushed her cheekbone. “And then you showed me that none of these things made me less afraid. I could want… more.”
She swallowed. “More of what?”
“Of you,” he said simply, and the floor seemed to shift beneath her.
The words sank into her skin.
“Iris,” he went on, his voice lower and rougher. “I cannot offer you a dukedom any longer. I cannot promise you that society will not mutter behind its teacups about your choice of husband. They will say I am scarred, and difficult, and that my past is… in disarray.”
A ghost of a smile touched his mouth before fading. “What I can offer you is this: my entire life. My name, for what it is worth. My house, such as it is, once Marcus has taken the grand one. My business. My ridiculous friends. My nephew, who already seems inclined to defend your honor in ways that make no sense to him yet.”
The image made something warm unfurl in her.
“I do not know how to be a husband,” he continued. “But I want to learn. With you. And I am willing, if you wish it, to leave all those dark rooms and clever devices behind?—”
“No!” She clasped her palm around her mouth, and Blaise chuckled. “I mean, there is no need to get rid of all of that…”
“I love you, Iris.” He confessed, and her eyes burned with unshed tears.
“I love you too, Blaise.”
She stared up at him. The scar, the dark eyes, the mouth that had spoken such wicked things to her and now offered the simplest words of all. Her mind flew back over every night she had spent in her cold bed, convincing herself she did not need anyone. That need was a weakness. That if she suffered enough, remained pure enough, she might finally be worthy of something.
And here he was making her feel loved. Blaise reached out and caught her wrists gently, as if to steady himself.
“Say it again,” he whispered.
She leaned up, her lips brushing his as she murmured, “I love you.”
Blaise did not hold back; he leaned in and kissed her. Iris surrendered to the slow, reverent kiss, as if learning the shape ofhis mouth anew. His hands slid down her arms, over her back, drawing her flush against him.
Heat unfurled in her core, familiar and yet sharpened by the tenderness of it all. The old shame stirred and whispered.
You should not want this so much; you should be better?—
