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“And what secret dealings have I found you in the midst of? All alone the night before our wedding?”

Penelope’s voice trembled slightly, the words shivering in the cool air, almost swallowed by the silence of the deserted street. But they reached him—pointed, piercing.

Colin stopped mid-stride, whipping around to face her. His jaw was tight, his eyes flashing in the lusterless glow of the streetlamps. “What right have you to ask me that?” The words burst from him, louder than he intended, sharp with frustration that had simmered far too long.

Penelope flinched but held her ground, her brow furrowed in a mix of distress and defiance.

“The right of a fiancée,” she whispered, voice steady despite the tears brimming in her eyes. “If that is what I still am to you?”

If. The single word rang in his ears, making his stomach swoop as though he had tripped over the uneven cobblestones beneath them. What could she mean by it? Did she doubt him? 

The audacity of it stung. It was he, after all, who had every reason—every right—to doubt her.

“Do you truly have to ask what I was doing the night before our wedding?” Colin spat, the bitterness in his tone ricocheting to lash out at them both. “I thought Lady Whistledown knew what happens everywhere in London?”

Her breath caught audibly, but she said nothing, just staring at him, wide-eyed and wary.

Colin tilted his head, his voice turning mocking—cruel in a way he knew he’d regret but could not contain. “Surely the carnal customs of a stag night at White’s have not escaped her ears?”

It was a bitter conjecture, one he did not truly mean, but it was also a test. And from the way her face paled, the look of utter agony that crossed her countenance, he wished he had not posed it.

Time halted between them, tenuous and torturing; he dared not move, mirroring how she remained motionless. He had thought it would feel vindicating to spite her—to ensure she felt even a fraction of the pain thrashing through him.

It may have been the most foolish notion to have ever crossed his mind.

She stared at him, her lips parting as though to speak, but no words came. Her eyes, aghast and glistening, flickered with emotions so palpable he could feel their ache radiating to his own body. 

Without warning, she spun on her heel and bolted, her cloak whipping behind her like sapphires absconding in the moonlight.

“Penelope!” he hissed, his voice low and urgent, slicing through the stillness of the late hour.

She did not pause, did not so much as falter, disappearing through an opening he had not observed between the shops. Her steps echoed like heartbeats splintering apart in the darkness.

Without thought, he gave chase, each footfall lodging his heart higher into his throat. Vexation and hurt churned like a tempest within him, but one thought rose above the chaos: he could not, would not, did not want to let her leave believing he had betrayed her.

Earlier that evening, Colin had thought it best to spend a few moments on his own at White’s, hoping to gather his wits after scattering them with far too many drinks. Benedict and Mondrich had respected his wishes for a men-only stag night—celebrating his wedding on the morrow with the finest cigars and drink—before they departed. 

As Colin brooded by himself at his table, waiting for his muddled thoughts to settle, Lords Fife and Wilding swept into the room, accompanied by a flurry of courtesans. Lord Fife caught sight of Colin, a smug glint in his eye, and directed one of the women towards him.

The prostitute greeted Colin with a coy smile and a bold squeeze on his thigh. Her hand lingered for only a few seconds before he shifted away. While he was not at all tempted by her touch, he was morose enough to entertain her conversation for a short while thereafter.

It was empty, unremarkable—just divertive enough to dull the edges of his own concerns. For a few fleeting minutes, he humoured her, letting her flatter him with her carefully chosen words.

These women were masters of their trade, and Ambrosia was no exception. Reading him quickly, her eyes softened with a calculated vulnerability, her focus wavering just enough to suggest fragility. The innocence in her expression was marked, deliberate—shimmering like a veneer polished to perfection—as she entreated him to stay the night. Not simply for pleasure, she earnestly assured him, but for his valiant protection from the club’s less savoury patrons.

He declined and took his leave. Of course he did. Even the thought of being close to another woman—after knowing the perfection of Penelope in his arms—felt profoundly wrong, a betrayal not only of his betrothed, but of his very self. 

His desperation grew as Penelope darted deeper into the shadowed alleyway, slipping further from the relative safety of the mainstreet and into greater danger. What was she thinking? Did she even know where she was going?

Or worse—did she know all too well?

He called her name again, his voice cutting through the quiet, but she did not stop. She moved like a cat weaving effortlessly out of reach, her movements quick and deliberate. He cursed her unexpected stealth, forcing himself to quicken his pace.

It became clear she knew this alley intimately, manoeuvring deftly between crates and discarded stands, slipping around corners without hesitation. His chest tightened at the realisation. How many times had she been here, at this unspeakably late hour, to be able to move with such certainty through its shadows?

Just as she reached the backdoor of a shop and fumbled frantically for the handle, he caught her. One arm encircled her waist, pulling her securely against him, while his other hand closed firmly over hers, stilling her frantic attempts to flee.

“I didn’t do anything,” he whispered urgently in her ear, his breath ragged and uneven. “I did not mean what I just said.”

She struggled against him, her body taut with anguish, but he did not heed her. For the first time, he ignored her wishes, keeping her pressed tightly against him. He needed to hold her—not just to still her, but because she could not truly hear his words. His only hope was to reach her through the connection they shared.

In spite of everything that had occurred between them, he clung to the belief that there was a deeper truth in their touch—a sacred language spoken through their bodies, impossible for their souls to misinterpret.

At least, he prayed their connection was still there; that it had truly existed in the first place.

“I did not,” he repeated, his voice breaking. Gently, he guided her hand away from the door, pressing it against her ribcage, cradling her with both arms. “I could never.”

A small, disbelieving noise escaped her—a wounded, fragile cry that pierced between his ribs, burrowing deep. Still, she resisted him, her pain so vivid and unyielding he wondered if it rivalled the torment he had carried over the last few weeks.

“I am furious with you,” Colin admitted, his voice raw and unguarded, “and I am sorry.”

Her breath hitched, a tremor running through her as she stilled in his arms.

“Touching someone else—being near another woman—holds no appeal for me,” he continued, lips aching as they hovered close to her temple. “It hasn’t since the first time we kissed.”

For a long, dreadful interval, she did not speak. Finally, her voice emerged, faint but sharp, trembling with emotion. 

“Then why did you imply otherwise?”

Her question hung, weighty and perilous, between them.

How could I know? Colin wondered helplessly. Whenever I do foolish things, it is always you who helps me figure out why.

He opened his mouth to respond but a question slipped out instead.

“Why have you done what you’ve done?” he asked, startled by the interplay of anguish and curiosity in his tone. “All the things you’ve written over the years…the secrets…” His anger flared anew, heating his words. “All the damage you have caused?”

She shifted in his arms, turning to face him. He allowed it, though his hand lingered on her elbow. He could not risk her running again. Their touch grounded him, like a tether to the earth, keeping the hot air balloon of his thoughts from cutting loose—unanchored and at liberty, it would surely bumble about and crush everything in its path.

“I am aware of all the damage I have caused,” she admitted quietly, voice solemn with remorse. Her eyes, shining with unshed tears, gravely met his. “And I am so, so sorry for it.”

He sensed the energy between them shift, opening in a way that unsettled him further. Her apology blunted the sharp edges of his anger, but it did nothing to quell the torrent of questions still burning inside him.

“What were you thinking,” he exhaled, disbelief hardening his tone, “when you wrote about Eloise?”

Penelope’s frown deepened, eyes shutting briefly, as if the memory physically pained her. “I was trying to protect her,” she said, her tone etched with regret. “The queen suspected her of being Whistledown, and I thought…if I published a story no one would ever write about themselves, it would divert suspicion.” She faltered, her lips pressing together. “I realise now how misguided I was.”

Colin shook his head, frustration bubbling to the surface again. “She was humiliated, Penelope. I’ve never seen her spirit so dampened. That column nearly destroyed her.”

Penelope’s hand drifted to her belly, as though bracing herself physically might stave off the emotions within. She simply nodded, silent and stoic, working hard to keep her gaze on his.  

“And when you wrote about Miss Thompson?” His voice was sharper now, demanding. “Exposing her as you did. Ruining her?”

“I thought I was protecting you,” she replied, anguish underlying every syllable.

“Then you should have told me,” Colin shot back, his voice rising, frustration spilling over, “to my face.”

“I know,” she said firmly, voice resolute despite the flinch that briefly flickered in her expression.

Colin could only stare at her, his glare unwavering. Her remorse was genuine; he could feel her pain, rippling out from her soul to his own. 

But it was not enough—not nearly enough to make sense of everything. 

“This is all the explanation I am to expect?” he bit out.

She took a deep breath, glancing down at his hand still holding her elbow before she looked back at him.

“I cannot stand here and claim I have not made mistakes, or that I do not regret my ill-considered choices,” she said, her voice steady but tinged with sorrow. “I wish I had told you. I wish I’d spoken out; that my voice could’ve stood on its own without the column, but every attempt I made proved futile.”

Colin frowned, his head tilting slightly as her words sank in. “What attempts?”

Penelope dropped her gaze to the ground, shaking her head. “There is no justification for my past actions, Colin. We need not delve further.”

He leaned closer, his grip shifting to her shoulder as if to steady both of them. “What attempts?” he pressed insistently. 

“At the dinner party after your engagement was announced,” she said quietly. “Do you not recall?”

His blank expression must have betrayed him because Penelope merely nodded, a flat sort of resignation taking over her eyes.

“I pulled you aside for a private word,” she prompted. “I told you Marina’s heart belonged to another. That she had confessed it to me—that I’d seen the proof myself in her love letters with Sir George Crane.”

Colin searched his mind for such an exchange. A vague recollection surfaced: Pen stopping him in the corridor during an evening at the Featheringtons’. Their conversation had been brief, and at the time, he’d been touched, even faintly amused, that she seemed to think she was imparting news of great consequence. 

The memory settled discordantly into his chest: her earnest, anguished face; the way he’d clasped her hand between both of his, patting it lightly in a gesture he’d meant as comfort but now knew had been pure condescension.

He had not taken any part of what she said seriously. He had not even thought of their exchange again, not until this very moment, even after Marina’s deception had unravelled.

Colin’s jaw tightened, the ache in his chest twisting into something heavier—guilt—but he shoved it aside. He was not the one at fault here.

“Marina interrupted us,” he recalled aloud, the memory sharpening with unsettling clarity. The plan to elope to Gretna Green had been born that very evening, driven by the rejection Marina felt from their families. How fragile her eyes had seemed when she told him no one cared for her, how urgently she had longed for the safety of his protection as her husband. 

Hadn’t he seen that same carefully calculated fragility earlier this evening? The artfully contrived, pleading innocence Ambrosia had spritzed around her like perfume. Its effect was pleasing—perhaps intoxicating—to someone unfamiliar with the nuances of true intimacy. Not the shallow allure of practised charm, but the honest closeness that lingers, unadorned and uncloying, when you’ve shared your true self with someone you love.

Could the whole scandal with Marina have been avoided if he had taken Penelope’s words seriously? If he had truly listened to her; questioned her further?

But how could he have known to? She had given him so little to even remember, let alone act upon.

“You told me she loved another,” he said at last, voice low and pointed. “Not that she was with child.”

“I was seven-and-ten, Colin…” She paused meaningfully.

He frowned, unsure what her age had to do with it. 

Her cheeks flushed faintly as she looked away. “I did not know,” she admitted softly, “that being in love and promising to marry was not…enough to conceive a child, on its own, without…more.”

Her gaze drifted back to his, vulnerable and searching, her eyes a shocking bright blue even here in the darkness. His grip on her shoulder tightened as his thoughts flashed back to a stolen afternoon, a settee, and their clothing scattered across the floor.

“Is there more?” she had asked him, surprised, before their bodies came together in the soft sunlight that filtered through the windows.

He remembered how she had winced and grimaced as he entered her for the first time, how her pained gasp clashed with the guttural groan he could not restrain, overcome by the exquisite pleasure of being inside her.

He shook his head as if to clear the memory. Penelope must have misread his reaction, for she slipped into nervous babbling—that old habit she could not restrain when she was unsure how to explain herself. “That is to say…I did not entirely believe Marina when she said it was love that caused her condition. There are many children in the world whose parents were not in love—mine obviously were not. But I could not figure it out with any certainty until you and I…”

She trailed off, before resuming, flustered. “Anyway, I was sure that telling you of Marina’s deep attachment to Sir George, especially when you were in love with her yourself, would help you see that all was not as it seemed.”

The innocence of her reasoning struck him like a blow. It bore no resemblance to Marina’s carefully contrived pleas or Ambrosia’s artful entreaties. It was honest.

Why did that leave him even more unsettled?

Penelope had shown him disarming sincerity tonight; he could not reconcile it with her secret life as Lady Whistledown.

How could someone so perceptive—so adept at dissecting human nature—have left him so completely in the dark, if she truly respected him? She had always been his dear friend, proclaiming to have loved him for years. Yet, never had he had the faintest inkling of her regard for him nor her singular success as a writer. 

She had manipulated the Ton with inimitable skill. But had she also deceived him—most of all?

Even now, her words lingered between them, earnest and guileless, piercing the defenses he had spent weeks building. Trust was no easy thing to restore when the wound she had inflicted was barely scabbed over, reopening at the slightest touch.

But she could heal his wound, could she not? A part of him yearned for it, even as other parts of him recoiled from the potential pain. Her words had always brought him comfort in his darkest hours. And now that he knew the warmth of her touch…

Once more, his mind drifted to that glorious afternoon following their engagement. He remembered lying on the settee after they had made love, their bodies still bare and so sweetly intertwined.  As they exchanged soft whispers and giggles, he had felt such closeness, the likes of which he had always sought but never found, until he realized it lived in his childhood friend, just across the square.

She had been so curious, tracing the planes of his body with reverent awe, pausing each time she found a scar to inquire of its origin. He found himself answering with unrestrained honesty, no matter how foolish the story behind each injury made him seem.

She had listened without judgment, tenderly drawing stars around each scar, until he could feel himself shining from within—utterly incandescent from being truly seen by Penelope. 

And now, in the darkness of this alley, she was watching him still, her eyes beseeching him to understand. But how could he even try when she had never been truly open with him? For every sweet memory, there was the shadow of her betrayal. For every honest word, the haunting question: What else have you kept from me? Will I ever know you, truly?

He could not let go of the ache, the splintering doubt that festered alongside his love for her. 

“And yet,” he said at last, his voice low and unyielding, “you did not publish in Lady Whistledown that Marina was in love with another. You wrote that she was with child.” He looked at her, not bothering to hide the betrayal he felt. “Why would you only tell me she loved another, but you’d tell the entire Ton she was with child?”

She stared at him in confusion. “Colin, what does that have to do with anything?”

“You share more truths with the Ton,” he said bitterly, “than you do with the man you claim to love.”

“What can you mean?”

 “You say you’ve always had feelings for me,” he scoffed. “but have I ever truly had your respect?”

“What?” she exclaimed.

He let out a sharp, empty laugh, finally releasing his grip from her shoulder. “It is clear I have not, not after what you’ve written about me this year—that I hardly know myself—what were you thinking then?”

“I was thinking…” she began, her response immediate but faltering as she hesitated. Her lips parted, and for a moment, he thought she might cry. 

But then he saw it—the familiar way she straightened her shoulders, the same practised poise she’d honed during their lessons. Slowly, she lifted her chin, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

Her voice, though shaky at first, grew louder and steadier, as if she was drawing strength from the very words she spoke. “I was thinking I wanted the Colin I know back. Not this stoic man you returned as, acting as if you care for no one and need nothing.” She paused, her tone still frustrated but tenderness creeping in. “I want you. The kind, feeling, occasionally excitable, good-hearted man whom I love.”

Her declaration hung in the air, vulnerable and unguarded, cutting through his defences more than any column ever had. But even as the words pierced him, he could not bleed out his trust just yet.

She paused to catch her breath, regarding him imploringly. Even here, in this shabby little alley, the moonlight caught the shimmering blue of her irises, reflecting off the small puddles on the cobblestones. He felt her hand brush against his forearm—a gesture that might have steadied him, if not for the fear that he ought not trust it.

“I should have told you myself, Colin,” she said, her voice soft but unwavering. “There are so many things I should have done differently. And now, with the confidence you have helped me find this year, I am finally able to.”

Her words sparked something within him—a tentative sprig of hope unfurling into the emptiness of his aching chest. “So, you do not need Whistledown anymore?” he ventured breathlessly, his hand cautiously clasping her own.

She hesitated, conflict clouding her features, as if she wanted to agree just to soothe his pain, yet honesty compelled her otherwise. “I do not need to hide behind Whistledown anymore,” she clarified gently. “But I’m not saying there isn’t any value in it.”

Oh, how it hurt. That flicker of hope, so freshly kindled, was snuffed out in an instant. He could not bear the pain of its death. He withdrew his hands and retreated a few paces, putting distance between them.

“Colin, please,” she whispered. 

He pressed his lips together, struggling to withstand the anguish and betrayal whipping through him. The wounds she had reopened were bleeding—he could practically feel them trickling hopelessly down his skin.

“Do you know what is most humiliating?” he asked, too beaten down and dejected for pride, his rawest thoughts just spilling out. “I let you talk so much about my journal as if I were to be this…great writer. When all this time, you have been a published writer…renowned across Mayfair.”

Her brows drew together in exasperation. “Colin, I meant everything I said about your writing,” she rebuked.

Was it a lie, or genuine? What could be trusted now? How maddening that his world was flipped inside out, like he’d been sucked into a twisted hot air balloon, desperately trying to decipher its trajectory. Was it propelling him to the stars or plummeting him into the dirt? He knew absolutely nothing with certainty anymore. He was utterly untethered. 

The edges of his wretchedness spilled over as he grasped for something to say—some irrefutable truth to level her with.

“You’ve been putting yourself in danger,” he snapped, voice ragged with fury and frustration, “living this double life, and you have been putting yourself in danger all along.”

“I have been careful,” she shot back, chin lifting in defiance.

“You have been foolish,” he countered, each word biting through the tense air.

Her jaw tightened, eyes sparking with fiery determination. “Colin, I can take care of myself.”

“Then what good am I to you?!” 

The words erupted from him, raw and inexorable, bursting forth like a dam broken by the weight of his anguish.

“Colin, I love you!” she exclaimed back, voice swelling like the banks of a river, determined to absorb the force of his current.

Her declaration was a splash to his flame—not enough to extinguish it entirely, but a portion was soused. Confusion rushed into the space left behind, leaving him vulnerable and exposed as some of the anguish evaporated.

Still, there was a fire within him that would not be quelled. It shifted, alchemizing into a violent surge of energy that ignited within his very bones—too potent to contain. His chest burned, thoughts curling away like ashes as he struggled against the onslaught of emotions. Rage roared through him, its flames clashing with the icy tendrils of fear coiling in his gut.

He was so angry with her for endangering herself, but even more with his own futility—what kind of man could not protect the woman he loved? What kind of man could not keep her safe from harm—or even from herself?

His rage wavered, but fear advanced, laying siege to his heart with relentless urgency.

“I love you,” she repeated, softer now, voice trembling, as though her heart were splintering in unison with his own.

It was a plea. A balm. A confession. And it shattered him all over again.

His chest ached as rage gripped one side and fear the other, clawing at him mercilessly. He felt himself splitting open, his very soul laid bare. From the gaping void, need burst forth—frantic and demanding—leaving him trembling with a desperate, eviscerating tenderness in its wake.

He could do naught but reach for her. With both hands, he found her face, cradling it as their lips crashed together with a ferocious desperation that stole his breath. Her hands flew to him instantly—cupping his cheek, clutching his shoulder—her touch as frantic as his own. She kissed him back as though she, too, was being ripped apart by the distance between them these last few weeks—a rupture that haunted not just their bodies, but their souls as well.

“I love you so much,” he confessed, a harsh whisper into her mouth, as he shook from the force of them reunited. “Too much.”

She whimpered in response, her hand quivering as it moved from his cheek to his heart, grounding him as his world threatened to shoot up to the clouds. He led her toward a shadowed nook where the buildings converged, shielding her from the open alleyway, though he could not protect her—or himself—from the tempest of emotions they had unleashed.

This is madness, he berated himself even as he licked into her mouth and guided her deeper into the shadows.

To feel her touch again was such a sweet relief, it brought tears to his eyes. The weeks without her had been an inescapable torment. Losing her, after they had finally found their way to each other, was the cruelest twist of fate. He had believed them inseparable, her presence etched into his very soul, just as he had given himself wholly to her. The days apart had stretched endlessly, each more agonizing than the last.

One of his hands remained cradling her face while the other braced against the cool glass of a windowpane. The memory of holding her in front of the mirror flashed through his mind—how she had trembled in his arms, gazing at him with the purest trust and devotion he had ever known.

Had he been fooled again, thinking their love was real?

But how could her lips on his, her hands scrambling up his arms to pull him closer, be anything but the purest truth in the world?

And yet, his mind argued stubbornly, hadn’t those lips lied? Entrapped? Manipulated? 

His tongue darted out to taste her, exploring the smooth, familiar curve of her mouth.

Her lips felt too real— too stunningly authentic to whisper artful contrivings. He’d had to give her lessons, for heaven’s sake, in flirting and feigning confidence, in putting on the veneer society expected to cue gentlemen that she was interested in them. 

He remembered those lessons, how her first attempt to flirt involved staring soulfully into his eyes and commenting on how remarkably they shone when he was kind. 

He did know her, her softness and sharpness. She had always been able to wield a barb so incisively it could bring others to their knees. But that was different from entrapment or manipulation, was it not? She printed the most piercing of truths in her columns. Were they cruel by nature, or were they merely a reflection of the cruelty she saw all around them in the Ton. 

But did that make it right? And why would she involve herself at such cost?

She could have tried to ensnare him—using both her power at Whistledown and his own proclivity for impropriety with her—but she never did. Not once. If she had truly wanted to entrap him, she possessed the power to do so.

But she used that power elsewhere. In fact, when he thought back to the scandal with Marina, Penelope had risked her own ruin—and that of her entire family—by exposing the deceptions of a young lady in their care.

Had she risked all of that for him? For the sake of his freedom at the expense of her own?

His memory flashed back to their private moment at the church, her eyes once again leaving him breathless with her sincerity as she confessed to having loved him for years. She explained that she had kept it a secret, even in the first few weeks of their engagement.

Perhaps she was not a liar, but a keeper of secrets. Secrets she had whispered to the entirety of the ton, secrets that laid bare his insecurities for others to gawk at and mock.

Could she really be his Penelope—his beloved friend, the one who had always made him feel seen and safe and truly appreciated—beneath the weight of her quill?

The memory of her ink-stained fingers prickled in his mind as her hand slipped inside his coat. He had seen the blackened smudges, that morning after their engagement party, when he slipped the engagement ring onto her finger. He had ignored the trace of falsity that lingered after her excuse of “writing letters.” He had set aside his flicker of doubt then, not pressing her. Should he have?

He needed to uncover who she truly was—who she was to him. His hand moved instinctively, sliding down her body. He squeezed the swell of her breast—nearly crying out alongside her at the exquisite sensation—before his palm drifted over the softness of her hip, then rucked up her skirts to dive beneath them.  There was not a second to lose; he rushed to reunite with the centre of her.

Her breath hitched as he pulled her thigh around him. He wanted her so terribly, so frantically. It was imperative that he feel her bare skin, touching her here to find the truth in her response.

Could Lady Whistledown look at him with such innocent devotion? Would she react with Penelope’s same open wonder, her same unguarded love?

He shuddered as his fingers brushed the warm silk of her thigh, pushing hastily, unrepentantly, through the layers of fabric that stood between where he was and where he needed to be.

Finally, he reached her quim, her lips parting easily at his touch.

She was hot against his fingertips, but not very wet. He immediately pressed his thumb to the pearl at her apex, circling the way she’d liked last time.

Her gasps spilled into his mouth, as though wrenched from her very being, pouring into his soul. He wanted to capture every intonation, stopper them one-by-one within a glass bottle that he could clutch close to his chest forever.

Each trill of her breath, every exhale, was precious, perfect, sinfully arousing—an elixir transmuting his wretched despair into gold.

He pulled back just enough to take in her expression. Her brows were furrowed in pleasure, and she clung to his arms, trembling. He circled a little faster and her mouth fell open into a pretty “O” shape. 

Desire roared through him, intractable and unrelenting. He wanted her—right there, on the street. The ache in his heart lessened the closer he pressed, seeking relief in the sweet friction of her body against his. The hardness between his legs strained against her soft warmth.

And then her hand moved. Tentative yet brave, it drifted from his arm down his stomach to the front of his breeches. She teased him at first, her touch light as though gathering courage, before wrapping her fingers firmly around his length. His vision blurred as he groaned, thrusting instinctively against her hand and pinning her against the wall. Her breathy gasps urged him on, setting every nerve in his body ablaze.

A slippery heat spread over his fingertips, and he realised she was growing wetter. His control frayed dangerously; he had to restrain himself from freeing his cock and joining them completely. Instead, he sheathed two fingers inside her, watching, entranced, as her eyes fluttered closed and rolled back, lips parting in a soft, unbidden cry.

As much as desire consumed him, a sense of rightness overwhelmed him even more. The tight clench of her muscles, the feverish wetness spilling onto his knuckles—despite his anger and hurt, there was this sanctity he found in their union that was unlike anything he’d ever known.

He had traveled to seventeen cities last summer, growing emptier with each one. No companions, regardless of how stimulating they were purported to be, could ease his loneliness. He had been farther from home than ever before, yet it was the distance from himself that felt the most vast. 

But here, with Penelope, he was wholly himself. He belonged in the warmth of her skin, catching her moans in his mouth. Every tremor shaking her body was destined to reverberate within his own. He was meant to cradle her soft form against him.

For all the damage she had done, had she truly never intended harm? Had she been trying to protect him and his family all along?

Desperate for answers, he pressed his fingers into her deeper—harder—as though her body could yield the truth her words could not. She shuddered in response, her small hand fisting his coat as the other kept stroking him to the brink of madness. He groaned, pleasure contorting his features as she tightened her grip on his cock, handling him so enticingly he nearly freed himself to join their bodies. One carnal squeeze had him crying out, her whole form quaking in response, before her voice broke:

“I love you,” she gasped, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “Oh, Colin, I love-”

And then a noise cut through the night.

He froze, his fingers slipping from her warmth into the cool evening air. Instinctively, he spread his arms wide, bracing against the brick wall to shield her with his body.

“Stay still,” he ordered, voice low and urgent.  

The wagon trundling past seemed to drag time with it, each creek of its wheels against the cobblestones scraping against his frayed nerves. The seconds stretched unbearably as they both tried to quiet their panting, the tension coiling impossibly tighter, ready to snap. He stood aghast, uncertain as the wagon came to stop near them, and he knew not what to do—but then her hand tugged at his sleeve, firm and insistent, guiding his own down to meet hers. 

Without a word, she pulled him from the nook, her urgency leaving no room for hesitation. She led him back towards the shop door she had nearly escaped through earlier, jimmying the handle with practised ease until it popped open. 

She guided him into a small, shadowy entryway, where another locked door awaited. The ease with which she moved unsettled him, reigniting the same doubt he had fought off mere moments before—painful flickers sparking in his chest. She knew this alley intimately—well enough to navigate its shadows in the dead of night.

The thought tightened in his throat like a vice. An irrational worry swelled, as though she might transform before his very eyes into someone unrecognizable, stealing away the Penelope he had just felt certain of again.

But she did not. Her eyes, wide with worry, darted about the space as she adjusted her bodice and skirts, ensuring she was fully covered. And when her gaze finally met his—those sapphire pools swirling before him—it was not the stare of a stranger. It was Penelope. 

The girl he had grown up with, from taking turns on the swings to trading barbs at balls. 

The friend who saw him completely, whose presence could always put him at ease like no one else’s.

The woman he had made love to, believing he was teaching her the ways of intimacy—yet learning more than he could have ever imagined.

Tentatively, she stepped forward, her expression etched with uncertainty. He dared not move a muscle, overcome by the weight of the moment—the fragile reconciliation of the wholeness he had always wanted but feared he did not deserve. He had doubted her, lashed out at her, and just now had taken her in an alley like an utter rake. One more misstep, he feared, would shatter her trust forever.

But then she pressed her forehead against his chest, her breath escaping in uneven bursts, surrendering to his arms once more.

Relief surged through him, warm and overwhelming, followed by a wave of tenderness so fierce it threatened to capsize him. He drew her close, wrapping his arms tightly around her as he pressed kisses into her hair. The feel of her hands slipping around his back, clutching him just as ardently, eased some of the tension that gripped his heart.

They stayed that way for a while, rocking gently and anchoring themselves in each other. He waited for his heart rate to slow, for the storm of his emotions to settle enough for speech. But Penelope did not ease. She kept her face buried against him, and with growing alarm, he realised her trembling had not lessened—it had grown worse.

The more she shook, the tighter the knot in his chest twisted.

“Did I hurt you, Pen?” The question cracked out, hardly audible. He could scarcely bear to voice it, but he needed to know; she was shivering so violently in his arms.

She shook her head against his chest.

“What is it?” he whispered, his voice gentle yet urgent. 

Her reply came muffled against his coat. “I was so afraid I would never feel your lips on mine again,” she confessed. His chest clenched as she continued softly, “And it was a harrowing vision. Colin, I truly do love you.”

She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, and his heart soared at her declaration, even as it sank to see the tears streaming down her face. He cupped her jaw reverently, brushing his thumbs over her damp skin. The proof of her pain once blinded him, but now he was determined to see her through it all. 

“I never meant to hurt you, Colin,” she entreated, “to hurt anyone. I wish I had told you sooner.”

“I know.”

And he did know. He knew it in his very soul.

“Can we entrust all our secrets to one another, Penelope?” he managed to reply. “I do not know if my heart can withstand discovering another. I love you too much.”

“No secrets,” she agreed quickly. “I will endeavour to only be honest with you in the future, Colin. To honour you as both my dearest friend and my–” her breath caught as she looked up at him, stars filtering into her eyes, “My husband.”

Her soft words permeated the air around him, lulling his brokenness with her siren song. Husband. She’d said the words with an intonation so uniquely hers, a sweet lilt that soothed his fractured heart. 

He wanted so dearly to be her husband. 

“If you will still have me?” she asked, quiet and tentative.

He cupped her cheeks in his hands, uniting their mouths for the slowest of kisses—a benediction of lips that existed to soothe rather than stoke.

He was reminded of their first kiss. It had been the most sacred thing he’d ever experienced; the way their lips met and he suddenly felt like he knew her soul—like he’d always known it but hadn’t recognized it for what it was…

Everything he had ever wanted, everything he had travelled the continent and beyond to find, had been across the street all along, mere paces away.

He had known then, just as he dared to remember now, with each sacred press of their lips, that every kiss before hers had been empty—trifling imitations of truth. In this fragile reunion, he recalled the way she had drawn stars around his scars, transmuting old wounds into constellations. 

And here, in each other’s arms, he felt they were floating skyward in a hot air balloon, free of the burdens that had once weighed them down. Every fragment of doubt and unworthiness fell away, shining anew with radiant honesty. Let loose, their love was an untethering of stars. 

“I will have you and hold you forever, if you’ll let me,” he confessed against her brow. 

She nodded eagerly, pressing closer to him. He stared down at her, incredulous that she opened herself so trustingly to him, as if he hadn’t just nearly tupped her in the street.

He brushed his face against the sweet-scented curls curtaining her temple. "I'm sorry for the pain I put you through," he whispered. "A husband should not be so overcome by his feelings that his wife doubts his love. Regardless of the conflict, I will endeavor to understand and be honest with you in the future, instead of leaving you in doubt."

He pressed a soft kiss to every tear that slipped from her eyes, tenderly shepherding them from cheeks to jaw. Eventually, their trembling lips met, lingering in the unadorned closeness of their truth. 

After some moments, he gently separated their mouths, still holding her close to him. “We should go,” he said regretfully, “it’s not a safe area.”

Penelope shook her head. “I’d rather be here with you—unsafe but in your arms—than be missing you from the safest place in the world.”

He found his gaze piercing hers. “Are you sure?”

She nodded.

So he pulled her into an embrace, ignoring the gentlemanly dictates drilled into him from birth that he should rush her back to her carriage, lock her inside and send her away from these darkened streets that she should never know existed. 

No. He would not rescue her from herself. She did not need him to. It was a foolish notion to begin with, believing that Penelope—the cleverest, bravest woman he had ever known—required anything from him but support. 

This was not some cloying pretendress in his arms, exploiting his weaknesses to gain his protection.

This was Penelope. 

This was love. 

And he was going to hold on with both hands.