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The door closed behind them with a soft click, leaving Graham and Abigail alone in the dimly lit corridor. Shadows pooled between the portrait frames, and the house settled around them with the particular quiet that came after celebration—expectant, waiting.

“Ms. Norwood is very forward for a Quaker,” Abigail said, turning to face him.

He smiled, relieved she stepped into the quiet. “She is a rare find and the girls adore her.”

She took a step closer to him. “The girls adore you, as well.”

Graham stilled. The pearls at her throat caught the lamplight. Her lavender and rose water perfume softened the air between them. Her hand lifted, hesitating, then brushed his lapel, smooth and gentle.

“I hope to be worthy of them—and of you.” The words were stiff and formal and he bowed slightly, using the movement to put some space between them.

Abigail dropped her hand and the silence descended like a shroud. After a long, heavy moment, she cleared her throat and took a step down the hallway to where their chambers awaited. “Shall we?” she asked, uncertainty threading the invitation.

He stood rooted to the spot, every muscle coiled so tightly he thought he might splinter. He could not look away from her—his wife. His. The reality crashed over him. She was still here, offering everything, believing in a future he was not certain he could give.

When he made no move to follow her, Abigail reached out and took his hand. “We said vows today. I meant mine.” Her gaze held his, steady and sure.

He had said the words, intending to honor them. But the wanting was a living thing in him—hunger edged with dread, longing scraping raw against bone-deep fear. Each inch between them felt perilous. Her hand in his was the gentlest promise, the warmest home—and he was terrified to step inside.

He stepped back, untangling his hand from hers. His back met the wall. Distance. Distance meant safety—for her, if not for him.

Abigail’s brow knit. “Graham, what’s wrong?”

Oh God. His throat closed. He wanted her—wanted to press his mouth to hers, to map the delicate arch of her neck with his hands and lips, to anchor himself in her warmth. He ached for it.

“I’m afraid I must excuse myself.” He ground the words out between clenched teeth.

Her hand fell away, confusion flickering across her features. “Excuse yourself?”

“There’s been a message from St. Bartholomew’s.” The lie came easily. “A patient requires my attention.”

“It’s our wedding night.”

The words hung between them like an accusation. Graham reached for his coat from the nearby chair where he’d left it hours ago, his movements deliberate and controlled.

He forced himself to meet her gaze, heart pounding like artillery beneath his ribs. “You’ll find that being a physician’s wife often requires certain sacrifices.” He loathed the brittle edge in his voice.

Hurt gathered in her eyes like stormclouds. “You promised this wouldn’t be a marriage of convenience,” she said quietly. “You promised you would try.”

The accusation hit its mark. Graham’s jaw tightened, his fingers working against the urge to reach for her. “I remember my promises. And I am trying.”

“Are you?” The question was barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of all her hopes, all her trust. “Because it feels very much like you’re running away.”

Yes. Because if I stay, if I touch you the way I want to touch you, there will be nothing left but broken pieces.

“I would not impose upon you in such a manner,” he said instead, the formal words creating another barrier between them. “Not tonight.”

Flashes of memories, dangerous and dark, flitted through his mind as they always did when the stressors of life, of things he couldn’t control eroded his control. He forced them away, but they stuck like barbs of shrapnel, digging in and demanding his attention.

“I see,” she said. “Then you must go.”

He avoided her gaze as he slipped his coat on. But she didn’t see. She couldn’t. If she knew what moved in him during the dark hours, what he dreamed of when his control slipped. “These cases can take many hours to sort through. I do not know when I will be back.”

She nodded and put a hand on his arm to stop him before he turned away. “Don’t forget, I chose this, Graham. I chose you,” she said, soothing and quietly fierce.

For a heartbeat, the urge to reach for her was overwhelming. He wanted to touch her with reverence, to lay his terrors at her feet—but the moment he let himself want, the darkness nipped at his heels.He had to get away from her.

He paused at the landing, unable to look back, unable to do anything but run. “Sleep well, Abigail.”