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She wasn’t a pretty girl in a tavern, perched on his knee and angling for whatever she could get. Or a handsome boy at school, up for a quick grope in the darkness, both of them trying to figure things out. She wasn’t a dalliance; she mattered.

She always had.

From the first moment he met her, she had intrigued him. Strong and beautiful, but strangely vulnerable, she looked like what she was: a woman whom life had battered and bruised, but who had refused to lay down and die. She had been trying to escape a Circle stronghold with her daughter, and had survived and succeeded where so many others had failed not just because of luck, as she often claimed, but due to a fighting spirit and a stubbornness that he often railed against, but secretly admired.

She reminded him of some of the fine ladies he’d seen as a boy in Canterbury, so imperious in their manner, as if born to command. They gave orders to the servants and townsfolk alike, and then swept majestically inside the cathedral, not waiting to see whether their wishes were carried out. Simply knowing that they would be.

And they were always right.

But Gillian’s resolve didn’t come from a sense of aristocratic entitlement, but from confidence—in herself, in her friends, and in the position that she held for the sake of her people. And she had never wavered under that burden, harsh and dangerous though it had been. Never once.

She amazed him, every time he looked at her.

But he wasn’t made of stone and couldn’t wait any longer. Another tug and the rosy peaks of her breasts emerged from the fine material, breaking free like twin suns rising over the horizon. He caught his breath, and then caught them with his lips, first one and then the other, lavishing them with attention as he had longed to do for what felt like ages.

They were as soft as the finest of silks, but the little nubs quickly hardened under his tongue, something that his body was mimicking—too soon. He wanted to sink his fangs into her, to plunder the blue veins on those snowy peaks, to her hear her gasp and arch and cry out his name, while he used his vampiric abilities to increase her passion tenfold. He wanted it so badly that he tore himself away and found her lips again instead, in order to prolong this.

And realized that the once soft and yielding body had gone stiff in his arms.

Kit pulled back, confused, and met eyes that had been so clear and sure a moment ago, but which were now huge and haunted. And quickly welling up with tears. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

Kit shook his head. He had been afraid of something like this. “No need. It is too soon, isn’t it?”

“No! It’s been six years! I should be past this!” She pulled at her outfit and he moved out of the way, so that she could sit up and hug it about her.

“These things take time,” he said, meaning to be reassuring, but it seemed to do the opposite.

“I’ve had time—more than enough! I just—” she paused and looked around at the vast expanse of the sky.

The wind was up, tearing the nearest clouds to shreds, while a flock of small birds dove in and out amongst the pieces, as if playing hide and seek. There were nests all in the cliffside, tucked behind every bit of rock. Kit hadn’t noticed before, but he supposed that made sense. What would dare to attack them here?

Gillian watched them play, but her expression said that she wasn’t seeing them. But something else, far away. And then her words confirmed it.

“I brought my husband here once.”

Kit paused, not having expected that response. “Here?” he finally said, not knowing quite what to say.

She nodded miserably, hugging herself tightly. The back of her chemise was sagging down, and her bare spine made her look all the more vulnerable. But there was strength there, too, and resiliency. Kit wanted to let his fingers trace the bones, not for any carnal reason, but to calm and to soothe.

Yet he didn’t. He didn’t think that soothing was what she needed right now. Boils had to be lanced before they could heal, and pain faced, and Gillian hadn’t done that.

Even after all this time, he knew almost nothing about her husband, as she rarely mentioned him, and then quickly changed the subject whenever his name did crop up. Kit had respected her unspoken wishes and not pushed for information that she wasn’t ready to give. But it was clear that avoiding the subject had not been beneficial.

But something seemed to have changed today.

“I didn’t even hesitate,” she said, turning a tear-stained face to him. “Can you imagine? I think about him every day, but I didn’t when I brought you here. I just wanted you to see it. It’s so beautiful.”

“I thank you—”

“No! I ruined it! I always ruin it—”

He put his hand over hers, feeling the tension in it. The bones like brittle twigs, so tense that he thought they might snap at any moment. But he held on, and as the heat of his hand leeched into hers, they relaxed slightly.

“Nothing has been ruined,” he told her, when she was ready to hear. “What am I? Some callow youth who cannot wait for his pleasure—and yours? I want you to be ready, to want this—”

“And if I never do?” her face suddenly crumpled. “I think I’m broken,” she whispered.

He did touch her then, pulling her into his arms, her head fitting perfectly under his chin. “You’re the least broken person I know.”