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I fall into step beside him, leaning against his side and relishing the feel of him next to me. These few normal moments feel nice. Right now, I can almost pretend all is right with the world.

We don’t talk, but the silence is comfortable. On habit, we make our way to the garden, walking past the well-groomed flowerbeds and bushes, heading toward the overgrown section at the very back.

The last time we were here, it was raining, but the weather is warm and pleasant today.

I sit on the ledge of the dry fountain, running my hand over the stone. “Lavender said ghosts linger near the places they die.”

Henrik smiles. “Do we believe in ghosts now?”

“Honestly? I don’t know.”

He nods, understanding.

“WhatisCamellia?” I ask him, knowing he doesn’t have answers.

“An abomination. A soulless monster who feeds on life to live.”

“Do you think the Woodmores can defeat her?” I turn my worried eyes on him. “Truly?”

He claims the spot next to me, staring into the garden. “I hope so.”

We exist quietly for a moment, and then I turn my head to study Henrik. He sits close, and our legs touch. He hasn’t shaved since the first day of the assembly, and dark stubble shadows his jaw. He looks over, and our eyes meet.

A second passes.

Then another.

Henrik leans forward, sets his hand on the side of my neck, and kisses me.

It’s so unexpected, I freeze for several seconds, losing myself to the moment. Henrik’s lips are soft but firm. His hand is warm and rough.

I focus on sensations: the feel of our noses brushing, his stubble as it scrapes my skin. The smell of the garden, the sound of the birds chattering in the trees.

Henrik pulls back slightly, caressing my neck with his hand. And then he kisses me again. Softly. Gently.

It’s the sweetest moment, and I feel it in my chest, my stomach. It tingles down my arms and makes me feel weightless.

When he ends the kiss, I blink at him lazily, feeling like I’ve just woken from a dream.

“I’m sorry about our wedding,” he says quietly, letting his hand fall to his lap. “I’m sorry you’re still sleeping alone—that nothing ever seems to go as planned.”

“I told you I’d wait for you.” I brush my thumb over his cheek, loving the man so much it almost scares me.

He lowers his forehead to my shoulder, allowing himself to be vulnerable and exhausted. I rake my hand through his hair, offering comfort the only way I know how.

In many ways, I think Lawrence was cruel for giving so much responsibility to a man like Henrik. He felt each death deeply, mourning every soul we lost in Camellia’s pointless battle. He’s not callous enough to be our duke marshal.

And yet, I cannot imagine anyone else in the role. Henrik was born to lead.

I just hope the position doesn’t destroy him.

“Someone’s coming,” I say quietly when I hear footsteps on the path outside our sanctuary.

Henrik sits up, nodding.

Bartholomew appears. He wears a smile, but it flickers before it falls into a look of despair. “I’m sorry to interrupt. Lawrence sent me to find you.”

“What is it?” Henrik asks, offering his hand to help me up. Together, we stand.