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In the night, Patrick’s anger ebbed into the sheets. He watched her sleep and thought of the look on her face when she saw children on the street, when he chased her downhill, when she danced. He wanted to give her a lifetime of that.

He traced the burn marks on the inside of her wrist. Beneath it, he could just make out the Artisan brand, Idia’s face refusing to be erased. Had it hurt, when she’d scorched away this version of her-self?

She’d made a mistake. Hadn’t he himself made plenty? He could forgive her this one error in judgment, this one deception. In some ways, he was responsible for it; he’d lied to her, too.

Nina Harrow had been in hiding most of her life, put through more than anyone deserved. And perhaps he was selfish for deciding she would be his—he, who could never bring her peace.

By dawn, his face was washed and clean-shaven. He was dressed but for his boots and pocket watch. He looked over to the bed, to Nina, still asleep. She was achingly beautiful.

Outside, duty beckoned, but he decided duty could wait a little longer. Instead, he pressed his lips to her exposed hip, tasted her skin with slow repose until she began to stir.

She came awake breathing his name, rolling toward him.

“Lie back,” he told her.

And when she did, he leaned over her thighs and lavished her with his fingers and tongue, until his name wasn’t just a murmur, but a cry. Until his clothes were once more discarded.

Until the troubles of the day seemed diminutive, hardly worth his time at all.