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“Lydia?” Thorn’s voice pierced through the haze, distant and distorted. A hand gripped her shoulder, firm but gentle. “Lydia!”

He shook her lightly, and the world sharpened for a fleeting moment. She blinked, her gaze locking onto his.

“Are you feeling unwell?”

Lydia shook her head, then quickly changed her mind and nodded.

Thorn enveloped her in a warm hug, his arms closing around her and steadying her. Warm. Solid. Real… Safe.

“God, you’re shaking,” he murmured. “Come.”

He guided her, his hand at the small of her back, and she tried to follow him on unsteady legs. But the walls seemed to close in on her, the space getting tighter and tighter around her.

She gripped his arm, trying to hold on to him as if he was her lifeline.

Concentrate on Art. Concentrate on him.

Thorn paused and looked at her, concern shining in his eyes. He said something, but Lydia shook her head; she hadn’t heard a word.

His arms closed around her once more, and then she was being picked up, held close to his solid chest.

“No,” Lydia tried to protest. “This is highly inappropriate.”

Thorn ignored her weak protest and quickly made his way up the stairs, through the corridor, and finally entered the viscount’s suite. Thorn seated her by the freshly lit fire as the maids rushed out of the room.

“Bring us some tea,” Thorn called to someone, but Lydia barely registered it. She stared into the flames, hypnotized by their flickering dance. Her body still trembled, her breaths uneven.

A blanket settled around her shoulders. Thorn crouched before her, his face drawn in concern. He tugged the edges together, cocooning her in warmth.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, rubbing her hands between his.

“I’m not cold,” she said, her voice weak.

He raised a brow but didn’t answer. His palms, hot and rough, smoothed over her chilled skin. He lifted her fingers to his mouth, exhaling warm breath over them before rubbing them between his own.

Lydia wasn’t lying. She wasn’t freezing from the cold. She wasn’t freezing outside in the rain. Why would she be cold by the fire? It was something within her. Somehow, the memories of this place stole all the warmth from her body and left her shaking.

“I hate this place,” she whispered.

Thorn stiffened. A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face. Was it pain? Of course, her words must have hurt him. No matter the past, this was his home. And he was soon to inherit it with his new title. The Marquess of Wakefield.

The face of the old marquess resurfaced before her mind. “Pack up your things, take your whore of a daughter, and leave before I throw you out.”

Then, the face of her mother filled with hurt and disappointment. She’d let her down. She’d let her die.

Her gaze dropped to Thorn’s hands holding hers. For a split second, they weren’t his hands.

They were hers, raw from scrubbing the floors until they shined, blistered by lye. She shook her head, trying to dispel the memories.

Thorn’s grip tightened, his fingers pressing against hers as if he knew she needed him to tether her to the present.

“Don’t make me remember,” she choked out. “Please.”

His arms wrapped around her, pulling her against his chest. Tears burned her eyes, then spilled, running down her cheeks. She tried to control her thoughts, but the dark memories persisted.

Nights spent in the cold. Her mother’s hollowed cheeks. The light in her mother’s eyes leaving her slowly. Then nothing. Just a spiral down into the dark abyss.

She squeezed her eyes shut.