Chapter Fifteen
Fiona did not sleep.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling until her eyes burned. The water stain shaped like a rabbit seemed almost to mock her, a reminder of simpler hours when her only concerns had been a sprained ankle and an intimidating host.
How na?ve she had been. How foolishly, wonderfully na?ve.
The hours crept past. Midnight came and went, marked by the distant chiming of the grandfather clock in the entrance hall.
One o’clock. Two. Three. The castle settled into the deep stillness of the small hours, that strange, breathless quiet when the world seemed to pause between one day and the next.
And still Fiona did not sleep.
She could not stop replaying the scene on the cliff. Christian’s face in the moonlight, drawn tight with anguish. His voice, raw and breaking, telling her to forget him
There is no us. There never should have been.
The words echoed in her mind, each repetition a fresh wound. She wanted to be angry—part of her was angry still, that hot coal of fury glowing beneath her breastbone—but mostly she was simply, devastatingly sad.
Sad for herself, for the future she had glimpsed and lost.
Sad for him, for the boy who had been taught he was monstrous and the man who had never quite stopped believing it.
Sad for both of them—and the love that should have been enough, but somehow wasn’t.
Somewhere around four o’clock, she heard footsteps in the corridor.
They were soft. Hesitant. They stopped just outside her door.
She held her breath.
A long pause.
Then—so quietly she almost missed it—a knock.
Fiona was out of bed before she fully realised she had moved. She crossed the room in three strides, her bare feet cold against the floorboards, and pulled the door open.
Christian stood in the corridor, illuminated by the small candle in his hand.
He looked terrible—hollow-eyed and unshaven, his hair disordered, his shirt untucked and his feet bare against the cold stone. He looked like a man who had spent the night wrestling ghosts.
“I couldn’t stay away,” he said.
His voice was raw, stripped of all pretence.
“I tried. I told myself it was kinder—that a clean break would be easier for both of us. But I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you leave without—”
His throat worked.
“Without what?” Fiona asked softly.
“Without telling you.”
He lifted his gaze to hers, and she saw everything there—love and fear and desperate, aching need.
“I meant what I said on the cliff. I believe walking away is the right thing to do. I believe staying will only hurt you more. But I also know that if I let you go without—without one more night—I will regret it for the rest of my life.”
Fiona’s heart was pounding so violently she could feel it in her throat.
“What are you asking me?”
“I’m asking for tonight.”
His hand rose, trembling slightly, and brushed her cheek.
“Just tonight. One more night to hold you. One more night to pretend the world does not exist—that tomorrow will never come—that we may have this, have each other, without consequence.”
“And in the morning?”
“In the morning, I will let you go.” His voice cracked. “I will watch you leave, and I will not follow. And I will spend the rest of my life remembering what it felt like to be loved by you. But tonight—please, Fiona. Give me tonight.”
Fiona’s chest tightened.
“I do not wish to leave,” she said quietly. “And if you truly intend to send me away, sharing a night together will only make the parting worse.”
Christian’s hand fell back to his side. For a moment, he said nothing, and the silence between them seemed to stretch painfully thin.
He turned slightly, as though preparing to leave before she could refuse him outright.
Fiona’s mind raced.
She had meant to reason with him in the morning—to speak calmly, to unravel the knot of fear and self-reproach that had driven him to this decision. Perhaps daylight would give her the clarity she needed. Perhaps time would give him the courage to reconsider.
Yet as she looked at him now—hollow-eyed and uncertain in the dim candlelight—another thought took root.
If he stayed the night… if he allowed himself, even briefly, to remember what they were together… perhaps the morning would look different to him.
And if it did not—if he remained determined to send her away—then she would at least have one final night with the man she loved.
One memory neither of them could erase.
Her hesitation must have shown, for Christian lowered his gaze, already retreating into that careful distance he had been building all evening.
“Forgive me,” he murmured. “It was selfish of me to ask.”
“Wait.”
The word escaped before she could reconsider it.
Christian looked up again.
Fiona reached for his hand.
Relief and sorrow crossed his face at once, so swiftly they were almost indistinguishable.
She drew him into the room.
They did not speak—they let their bodies speak instead.
Christian set the candle upon the bedside table, its flame casting restless shadows along the walls.
Then he turned back to her, and his fingers found the ties of her nightgown. He undressed her with a reverence that made her eyes burn.
“Let me look at you,” he murmured, stepping back to take her in. “Let me memorise you.”
She stood before him, bare and vulnerable, and let him look. His gaze travelled over her like a caress—her face, her throat, the curves and hollows of her body. She saw his expression shift, soften, break open with something that looked like grief.
“You are so beautiful,” he said. “I want to remember this. I want to remember exactly how you look, right now, in candlelight. I want to carry you with me.”
“Then carry me.” She reached for him, pulling at his shirt. “Carry me, Christian. Show me how you feel.”
He kissed her.
It was not like their other kisses. This was something else entirely. This was grief made manifest, love distilled into its purest form, a farewell that neither of them wanted to say.
His mouth moved over hers with aching slowness, learning her anew, savouring her, committing every detail to memory. His hands followed the same path, tracing the lines of her body. He touched her like she was precious, like she was sacred, like she was the only thing in the world worth touching.
She undressed him in turn, peeling away the layers of his clothing until he stood before her, bare and beautiful and marked. The birthmark seemed to glow in the candlelight, wine-dark against his pale skin, and she pressed her lips to it as she had done so many times before.
“I love this,” she whispered softly. “I love every part of you. I will never stop loving you, Christian. No matter what happens. No matter how far apart we are.”
He made a sound that was half a groan, half a broken breath, and gathered her into his arms.
The bed was narrow—meant for a single occupant—but they had never needed much space. He laid her down on the white sheets and covered her body with his own, and for a long moment, they simply held each other, skin to skin, breath to breath, heartbeat to heartbeat.
“I don’t want to let you go,” he murmured into her hair. “Every instinct I have tells me to keep you here. To shut the doors and never let the world touch you again. But I cannot. I cannot watch them destroy you. I cannot be the cause of your suffering.”
“I would suffer more without you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know my own heart.”
She lifted his face, forcing him to meet her gaze.
“What I feel for you is not a passing fancy, nor some romantic delusion born of circumstance. I love you, Christian. Truly. Deeply. And I will go on loving you whether you stand beside me or a thousand miles away.”
“Fiona—”
“Let me finish.”
She touched a finger lightly to his lips.
“You believe you are protecting me by sending me away. That my life will be easier without you. But you are wrong. My life without you will be half a life. I will survive, perhaps. I will endure. But I will never truly live.”
His eyes glistened. A single tear slipped free, and she brushed it away with her lips.
“I am not saying this to change your mind,” she continued softly. “You have already decided. But I want you to understand what you are giving up. What we are both giving up. I want you to carry that knowledge with you—along with the memory of how I looked tonight.”
“You are cruel,” he whispered.
“I am honest.”
He kissed her again then, fiercely, and she felt the dam break inside him. All the restraint, all the careful tenderness, all the slow reverence—it shattered, giving way to something fiercer, something that tasted of desperation and grief and a love too large to be contained.
His gaze met hers, and she saw anguish, overwhelming and fierce.
His hand moved to her, finding the warmth between her thighs.
The answering slickness told him she wanted him just as much, if not more.
His fingers moved slowly within her, and her body closed around them as though she would never willingly release him.
Gradually, he found a rhythm—gentle at first, then deeper, more urgent—until every motion carried the force of everything he could not forgive himself for.
He made love to her like a man drowning, like she was the only air he would ever breathe.
Every touch was urgent, every kiss a brand, every whispered word a vow he could not keep.
She met him with equal intensity, wrapping herself around him, taking him into her body and her heart and holding on with everything she had.
“I love you,” he gasped against her throat. “I love you, I love you, I love you—”
“Show me,” she answered softly. “Show me again. Show me until I can feel it in my bones.”
And he did.