Chapter 14
At dawn, the woods relinquished their shadows reluctantly, as though light itself were an intrusion rather than a right.
Frost clung to branch and bramble with patient insistence, preserving every mark impressed upon the snow: the delicate script of birds, the hurried scatter of hare, and, on certain mornings, impressions too large to be easily dismissed.
The morning light filtered through the tall windows of Blackfen Castle with a pallor that matched Verity’s mood.
Thin, uncertain, and offering no warmth whatsoever.
She had slept poorly, her dreams a tangle of golden eyes and black fur and Robert Fynn’s terrified screams fading into the darkness.
Each time she had surfaced toward wakefulness, her mind had circled back to the same impossible truth, worrying at it like a dog with a bone.
Lucien was a wolf.
Or rather, Lucien became a wolf when the moon was full.
The distinction seemed important, though she could not have articulated precisely why.
One suggested a monster wearing a man’s skin; the other, a man burdened with a monstrous affliction.
The difference mattered. It mattered more than she could say.
She dressed with more care than usual, selecting a gown of deep green wool that brought out the color of her eyes and arranging her hair in a simple but flattering style.
It was armor of a sort, she supposed. The armor of a woman who intended to have a very difficult conversation and wished to feel as composed as possible while having it.
Her hands trembled slightly as she fastened the bodice, and she paused to draw a steadying breath.
She had faced Robert Fynn’s violence and survived.
She had looked into the eyes of a wolf and not fled.
Surely, she could manage one conversation with the man she loved.
The thought made her shake her head in disbelief.
Love. Was that what this was? This ache in her chest, this desperate need to see him, to touch him, to assure herself that he was real and whole and still hers?
She had not meant to fall in love with the Earl of Blackfen.
She had not meant to fall in love with anyone.
And yet here she stood, her heart hammering against her ribs at the mere thought of seeing him again.
The countess was still abed when Verity looked in on her, sleeping peacefully in her mountain of quilts and pillows.
Mrs. Harrow had already seen to the fire, and a tray of tea and toast sat waiting on the bedside table for whenever Lady Blackfen chose to wake.
There was nothing that required Verity’s immediate attention.
Which meant there was nothing to prevent her from seeking out Lucien.
She found him in his study, seated behind the great mahogany desk where, only yesterday, he had laid her down upon the rug and shown her pleasures she had never imagined existed.
The memory rose unbidden, heating her cheeks …
his hands on her skin, his mouth trailing fire down her throat, the way he had whispered her name as he moved inside her.
She pushed the images aside with effort.
There would be time enough for such recollections later.
Now, there were more pressing matters to address.
He did not look up when she entered.
That was the first sign that something was terribly wrong.
Lucien had always been acutely aware of her presence.
But now he sat hunched over a sheaf of papers, his quill scratching across the page with a mechanical rhythm that spoke of duty rather than engagement.
The wolfhounds were nowhere to be seen, and the fire in the grate had burned low, as though no one had thought to tend it.
“Lucien?”
The scratching stopped. He set down the quill with deliberate care, and when he finally raised his head, Verity felt the breath leave her lungs.
He looked ruined. There was no other word for it.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, which had lost their usual warmth and now regarded her with something that looked horribly like resignation.
His jaw was tight, his shoulders rigid, and the lines bracketing his mouth had deepened overnight into furrows that aged him a decade.
He looked like a man who had not slept, who had spent the long hours of the night wrestling with demons that had finally won.
What sort of physical toll did it take to transform from man to beast and back again. It had to be … painful.
“Verity.” His voice was flat, stripped of the tenderness that had colored it yesterday. “I was going to send for you. Please, sit down.”
The weariness in his tone struck her like a physical blow. Yesterday, her name had been a caress upon his lips. Today, it fell like a weight between them, as though saying her name aloud cost him something he could not afford to lose.
She lowered herself into the chair across from his desk, her hands folded in her lap to hide their trembling. “What has happened? You look?—”
“I am making arrangements.” He cut her off, his gaze dropping back to the papers before him. “For the estate. For my mother. For you.”
“For me?”
“I am settling an income upon you. Five hundred pounds per annum, to be paid quarterly from my personal accounts, regardless of who holds the title. It should be sufficient to establish yourself comfortably in London, or wherever you choose to go.”
Verity stared at him, certain she had misheard. “I do not understand. Why would I need?—”
“I cannot be certain what will happen in the coming days.” His voice remained flat, almost mechanical, as though he were reciting lines from a script he had memorized but did not believe.
“Or whether you will be able to remain at the castle. It is best to make provisions now while I am still in a position to do so.”
The words settled over her like a shroud.
She had come here intending to discuss wolves and moonlight and the impossible truth she had witnessed in the courtyard.
But Lucien was speaking of departure, of separation, of a future in which she would be alone once more.
The careful provisions, the talk of income and titles …
it sounded like a man putting his affairs in order. It sounded like a man preparing to die.
“You said I was under your protection.” The words emerged more sharply than she intended, edged with the fear she could not quite suppress.
“You said Robert Fynn would never touch me while I remained in your household. Is this …” She swallowed hard.
“Is this because of what happened between us yesterday? Because we lay together?”
Something flickered in his eyes. Pain, perhaps, or longing. But it was gone before she could identify it with certainty. “No. This has nothing to do with you.”
“Then what?—”
“It is I who am incapable of protecting you.” He rose abruptly from his chair, turning to face the window with his broad back to her.
His shoulders were a rigid line beneath his coat, and she could see the tension in every muscle, as though he were holding himself together through sheer force of will.
“I am incapable of protecting anyone. And so, I will be removing myself from the castle.”
“Removing yourself?” Verity stood as well, her composure fracturing. “What do you mean by removing yourself? Where would you go?”
“Away.” The word was barely audible. “Far enough that I can do no more harm.”
“Your people need you.” Verity’s voice cracked on the words. “Your mother needs you. You cannot simply abandon—” Her throat tightened, and she had to force the next words past the ache that had settled there. “I need you.”
The admission tore something open inside her.
She had not meant to say it, had not meant to lay herself so bare before a man who was already turning away from her.
But the truth of it burned in her chest, demanding to be spoken, and she found she could not call the words back even if she had wanted to.
She needed him. She needed his steadiness and his gentleness and the way he looked at her as though she were something precious.
The thought of him disappearing into some distant exile, of never seeing him again, of waking each morning in a world that did not contain him was unbearable.
It was a wound she was not certain she could survive.
He turned on her then, and the wildness in his eyes made her breath catch. This was not the controlled, commanding earl she had come to know. This was a man at the end of his rope, fraying before her eyes.
“No one needs me.” The words were harsh, almost savage. “I am a burden to all who know me. A danger to everyone within reach. It is time, past time, for me to take myself off before more people are hurt.”
More people. The phrase caught in her mind like a thorn. “What do you mean, more people? Lucien, what has happened?”
The use of his name seemed to strike him physically. He flinched, turning away once more, and for a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the fire in the grate.
“I have hurt someone.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “There are secrets I carry that are not mine to share. But for your own safety … for everyone’s safety … I must remove myself from Blackfen.”
Verity felt her Irish temper rising, that fierce, ungovernable fire that she had inherited from her mother. She was tired of secrets. Tired of lies and half-truths and evasions.
“I am sick unto death of secrets.” The words burst from her with a force that surprised them both.
“I am not fragile or foolish. You speak of danger and protection and removing yourself, but you will not tell me why. You make provisions for my future as though you expect to die, but you will not explain what threat you face.”