He never believed it was a possibility—a man who had been born wanting, and punished for it in every moment since. Yet, with the weight of your head on his chest, your fingers curled in the spaces between his own and the rush of another release still flowing through his veins, he finds himself content, unable to conjure anything he would change to make this moment more pleasant, more divine.

That's never happened before.

You shift more fully against him, turning so your lips paint a path up the center of his chest, across his collar bones, his neck, his jaw. A trail of light follows, like the stream of a meteor through a blackened sky.

You stop just below the hollow of his cheek, and when you pull back to meet his gaze your skin is still slick with sweat, eyes bright.

"Wow," you whisper the word, a shy smile blossoming across your face. Despite himself, Armitage's expression almost matches your own, lips curling up at the corners uncharacteristically.

Your voice is breathless with laughter, the stroke of your fingers over his rib cage bringing a flush of blood across his chest. "Is it like this for everyone?"

Armitage doesn't think so. It's never been like this before, not in his very limited experience. Instead of answering, he smooths a hand over your hair, cupping your warm cheek against his palm—the true center of his universe, right here in his hands.

He pulls in to kiss you again, because he can, because he needs you like this, and now he can have it—your body against his, your soft mouth and those maddening hands.

And when you pull away for a breath, foreheads pressed together, the tip of your nose just brushing his own, the only thought Armitage has left slips between his parted lips, overcome with the impossibility of this exact moment.

"How could anyone have let you go?"

It would be imperceptible to anyone else—the way you stiffen in his arms, like you're about to be struck.

But Armitage notices.

He'd be lying if he said there wasn't a curiosity inside him he had yet to satisfy. Armitage knew there were other men before him, men who had wanted you—maybe almost as desperately as he had—and who failed in their pursuit.

And he's seen the way you defer—not just to him, but to any men you encounter. How you become smaller in their presence. You had been so apologetic in the very beginning, anticipating your husband's anger in every moment, and stunned when it never came.

Who had made you so afraid? Armitage would like to know.

"It's for the best, I think," you tell him in a voice that fails to convince him of anything. "They were not . . . not good men."

There's a tightness to your expression as you pull away from him into a sitting position, adjusting the covers like a shield across your torso, holding yourself tight.

Not good men. A pit forms in Armitage's stomach—so fully convinced that he has ruined everything he can’t breathe—until he feels your fingers brush his palm, grasping him at the wrist and pulling his hand into your lap.

Your touch reels him back from that looming precipice. Armitage clears his throat, watches you trace the darkened path of his veins with the tips of your fingers.

"Will you . . . tell me about them?"

He'd like to demand it of you, if only to sate the gnawing hunger he feels just below the center of his throat. In any other moment, with any other person, Armitage would force the words into being with whatever means he possessed.

But this is an exercise in intimacy, not interrogation. And as much as he wants to know, your husband craves your trust even more.

Armitage waits, watching you curiously as you stare intently into the palm of his hand, examining the creases, the few nicked scars, the bend of his knuckles. He flinches when the first droplet falls into his palm, and he wonders at it for a heartbeat before he recognizes its source.

When you lift your face, your eyes have welled with tears.

"It's so—" you swallow, but whatever term could encapsulate your feelings doesn't come, lodged somewhere between your ribs, a bit of shrapnel at the edge of your heart. Armitage can fill in the gaps well enough with words of his own. Raw. Harrowing.

Shameful.

And it’s all new to him—offering comfort of any kind—but he doesn't have to think about reaching out to you, his thumb traveling over the damp swell of your cheek without any guidance on his part.

Armitage watches your flushed lips tremble, feels another tear land against the meat of his palm, and searches for the words that would make this all right again, that would have you press your body against his like in those moments before, have you forgetting any hand that had ever touched you in anger or in ownership.

Nothing comes to him, no apology or assurance that could clearly convey how utterly stupid he feels for even daring to mention the life you lived before this one. And any of the words he might have used fizzle out of existence the moment you fall into him, pressing your wet face into the crook of his neck.

His arms tremble, hesitant as they circle your waist. His mind is scattered, too aware that he's not right for this—not trained for it—and he's certain you'll catch him out before he takes his next breath. But your body settles against his, your bare skin warm and soft as ever. There's the brush of your breath hot against his neck, and whispered words follow.

"I was twelve, the first time."

Armitage follows the cadence of your voice with a careful ear, hardly allowing himself to breathe, afraid the smallest gesture might erode this tentative trust you've placed in him.

"There was a party at our estate. I wasn't old enough to attend, but I snuck out to watch some of the guests arrive. There were these two officers from the Order, and they spotted me in my hiding place away from the entrance."

You let out a shuddering sigh, and Armitage goes stiff beneath you, his fingers curling slowly into a fist. He's heard the stories from officers who came before him, men who got used to taking what they wanted from young, naive women, from powerless little girls—stories like the ones his father used to tell in those moments where the drink took control of his tongue and turned him brash.

Armitage had been swift and precise in eradicating that kind of behavior from both his subordinates and superiors when he took control. But was there someone he had missed?

"Do you have their names?"

His voice is too even, too stifled for the way his blood thrums through his veins, but Armitage knows he won't get any more from you if any of that fire leaches into his words.

The silence lingers for a moment before you shake your head. "They never told me."

A setback, but not necessarily a significant one. "Their rank?"

Another pause. Your head lifts, your brow furrowed in thought. "One of them had the two bands on his sleeve. I don't remember anything about the other one."

That will certainly narrow it down. Armitage is already running through his mental calculations based on the time frame, those officers and their stations and where they might be now. Satisfied—for the time being—he nods, and you fall back into your story without any more interruptions.

"I was . . . flattered by their attention. It didn't feel wrong to me, at the time. I believed I was very mature for my age, and they seemed to think so, too.

"I remember pouting—childishly—when they told me they were going back to the party, trying to convince them to stay, tugging at the one man's sleeve. He bent down, pressed his cheek toward me for a kiss, and—"

You swallow harshly, like the words are fighting to stay back. "He gripped my face so tight in his hand I was afraid there'd be bruises when he let go, and my father would know what I'd done. It was the first time I'd been kissed, and I was trying to push him off of me, and I could hear the other man laughing, but I couldn't understand why he wasn't helping me. It took me too long to realize that I was the thing he was laughing it at."

Your head comes to rest next to Armitage's on the same pillow, your eyes damp and shining when they meet his, expression shy when you cast your gaze down.

"I— I never told anyone about it. My father would have blamed me for what happened, for being anywhere near those men. I shouldn't have entertained them like that, regardless. It taught me to be careful . . . I had to be very, very careful."

Armitage learns how careful you learned to be through the other stories you share in that same quiet confessional tone, taking in your whispered secrets while he attempts to control his racing heart. If he were a different man, Armitage might worry that he'd miss something, or forget some crucial detail—a name, the exact phrasing of the words used against you, the ways you had been inculcated in fear.

But his mind takes in the information the same way it processes all other issues with which it is presented—through the lens of action, manufacturing the next steps he'll pursue with a ruthless order. Armitage is already considering which of these men he'll locate first.

And it's enough to keep him in this place, one hand rubbing its soothing patterns between your shoulder blades. It's enough to keep him from faltering, until the last.

"It was almost two year ago that my father was doing business with Danmar Wessel. Have you heard of him?"

Armitage hums into your hair in an approximation of a yes, although his own familiarity does not extend much beyond the name.

"I had expressed some . . . discomfort about it, in the small ways I could. I knew Wessel had asked after me before, but my father would never have allowed it. He was too poor."

You laugh humorlessly, shifting within Armitage's grasp.

"But he wanted something from Wessel—I can't imagine what. And so he didn't tell him no, outright. He was staying with us for a few weeks, and I kept finding him in these places he shouldn't have been—the greenhouse, or my library—like he was waiting to catch me alone. He'd always sit beside me at meals, pretend to drop his napkin and then I’d feel his fingers at my ankle."

You shudder, actually, at the memory of this other man's hands, and Armitage can think of nothing but to hold you tighter.

"My father knew what he was doing, but he made not attempts to stop it. And to me it was merely an annoyance. Wessel, I knew, was stupid, and spineless, I thought. I never considered there might be any danger."

Armitage grows cold in the steady silence that follows those words.

"I'm certain I had locked my doors the night it happened. It had become such a habit for me with Wessel there. I don't know how he got in. All I know is that I woke with a hand pressed tight over my mouth in the darkness. Somehow I managed to push him off of me for long enough that I could scream, and someone came running, and—"

You shift away from Armitage again, his skin growing colder in your absence when you sit up. You won't meet his eyes.

"One of the guards woke my father. He was angrier than I'd ever seen him, storming into my room. I was almost relieved, thinking he'd finally throw that man out, and we'd all be rid of him—but he spent all his venom on me.

"I understand why he did it. The story would spread if I made accusations against Wessel, and certainly some people would question my side of it. Would question me. He wanted to preserve my chances for an advantageous marriage.

"So I apologized for my confusion, told everyone that he must have wandered into my quarters on accident and it had only startled me. He left a few days later, and I was quietly relieved to have it all behind me."

Your voice breaks, but the words keep pouring out in a horrified gush. "They found the body of one of his maids dead in his estate two nights after. It was ruled a suicide, but I heard there were rumors about the bruising around her neck, and—"

Armitage's stomach twists on a knife's blade as he takes your cheeks in both his hands. He meets your gaze through the brimming tears, and his own vision grows foggy, a sharp sting in the back of his throat.

"I've always wondered if I, if I had said something, that maybe I could have—"

"No," Armitage interrupts you for the first time since the last. He'd like to say more, but there aren't the words for it. "No."

Your mouth folds into a frown, tears spilling down your cheeks when your eyes fall closed, and he can't stop the tears from falling, but he can pull you close, can hold you against him in the circle of his arms.

"They should have protected you," Armitage whispers, more to himself than to you, and you tremble against him with a heavy sob because you know it's true.

Your body grows heavier as you ease into his touch, and he lays back, letting your head pillow on his chest. Armitage feels your heart rate slow, your breaths shallower and steadier where your body meets his. He's not sure how much time passes before you succumb to sleep.

They should have protected you. All the rage he had held back from your sight pours through him, keeps him awake long into the night. If he's capable of anything at all, if he ever hopes to be worthy of your tender presence in his bed or his life, Armitage will be the one to protect you.