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" Y ou look like something the Thames spat back," Lincoln Wallace remarked, shaking rainwater from his enormous beard like a bear emerging from a river. His shoulders nearly filled the doorway.

Graham looked up from his hands where he’d been flexing his knuckles and watching the blood ooze.

The consultation room at Hallowcross was marginally better than his cell—at least it had a proper table and chairs rather than bare stone—but the iron bars on the windows and the sour smell of fear were no less oppressive.

"Your bedside manner remains abysmal," Graham said, then added after a beat, “Thank you for coming.”

Lincoln's beard twitched with amusement, but his eyes—sharp as a surgeon's blade—missed nothing as they took in Graham, seeing far past the sleepless night and fresh cuts and bruises.

"Did you imagine I wouldn't? With Admiral Birkins pounding on my door, bellowing about dukes in asylums?

" Lincoln settled his substantial frame onto the rickety chair across from Graham.

"Though your duchess is nothing short of formidable.

Between her, the admiral, and those two aristocratic bulldogs pacing the corridor, poor Hodge nearly suffered an apoplexy. "

"They're still here?" Graham's throat tightened. "I need to leave, Lincoln." The words scraped out of him. "I have a hearing in Chancery Court this morning. My nieces—their future depends on it."

“Yes, I’m well aware.” He fished a notebook and pen from his greatcoat and put them on the table. “But first, we talk.”

"There isn't time?—"

"There is precisely thirty-seven minutes before I must leave to make Bow Street before court convenes,” Lincoln countered, implacable as a mountain. "Tell me about the flashbacks."

Graham's fists clenched beneath the table. "Spain. The frigate. The usual specters."

"And?"

"And what?" Graham snapped.

"What else came for you in the dark?" Lincoln's gaze never wavered.

Graham stared at the wall behind Wallace's head, focusing on a water stain shaped vaguely like the coast of Cornwall. "The mugger. Abigail's attack. Over and over."

Graham closed his eyes briefly, seeing the man’s bulging eyes, feeling the desperate thrashing, hearing Abigail's voice cutting through the blood-rage. "I nearly killed a man right in front of her.”

"You've killed before."

"This was different." The savage pleasure of crushing the life from him sickened him in the light of day. "I wanted it. Not for king and country. For me."

Lincoln made another note, his expression betraying nothing. "Interesting that this particular memory recurred most frequently."

"Is it?" Graham's laugh was brittle.

“You stopped that night. Why?” Lincoln sat back, stroking his beard as he waited for Graham to answer.

“She asked me to.” He shrugged and avoided the other man’s eye.

“Ah.” Lincoln nodded but said nothing more.

Graham’s jaw worked, and he pressed his hands against his thighs, steadying himself. “Ah? It’s hardly a revelation.”

“Isn’t it?” Lincoln leaned forward, his voice dropping. "That night cracked you open. It connected you to her. That moment is about truth. About who she is. And who you are when you're with her."

God help me. I can’t do this.

Graham jerked to his feet. "Don't try to make it poetic. A beast acting like a beast hardly seems noteworthy."

"She sat outside your cell all night."

"She shouldn't have."

"But she did." Wallace's voice remained steady. "What does that tell you?"

"That she's stubborn. Reckless."

"Try again."

Graham paced the small room, three steps in one direction, three back. "That she doesn't understand. She thinks she can fix me."

"Graham." Wallace's tone made him stop. "The woman I spoke with tonight doesn't strike me as a fool or a dreamer. She knows exactly what you are."

Graham sank back into his chair, suddenly exhausted beyond measure.

"Tell me about her," Wallace said gently.

"What does this have to do with getting me out of here?"

"Humor me."

Graham stared at his bloodied hands. "She's unexpected. Strong in ways I never anticipated. She walks into chaos and creates order through sheer force of will. She sees people—truly sees them—even when they'd rather remain invisible."

"And how does that make you feel?"

Graham shot him a withering look.

Wallace chuckled. "Professional habit. Allow me to rephrase. What does she mean to you?"

The question—so simple, so damning. He had nothing left to defend himself with. The words sliced into his soul that stood bare and raw after the night’s horrors. He had no detachment, no pretense left.

"Everything," he said, collapsing back into the chair. He leaned forward to cradle his head in hands and spoke to the floor as he studied the muck smeared on his boots. "She means everything. And I don't know how to live with that."

"Most of us don't." Wallace made a brief note in his book, his handwriting cramped and illegible to anyone but himself. “But you may be on your way to sorting that out.”

Graham stared at the wall, breathing through the vulnerability of the moment. "Are you satisfied now? Can we proceed with getting me out of this wretched place?"

Wallace made a few more notes in his book. "Always rushing my process."

"Your chronicles of my madness can wait," Graham snapped.

"Not chronicles. Observations." Wallace checked his pocket watch again. "If I leave now, I can catch Magistrate Gorse before he becomes entangled in today's cases."

Graham straightened, hope flaring. "You believe you can convince him?"

"He’ll be vexed about my interference, but I've been evaluating soldiers with battlefield trauma for fifteen years. My opinion carries considerable weight." Lincoln tucked his notebook away and rose to his feet. "You'll be at Chancery Court this morning."

"Lincoln—" Graham stood, words of gratitude jamming in his throat.

He waved away Graham’s gratitude with a massive hand. "Ironically, this is the sanest I've ever seen you. First time in an asylum, and you've finally found your wits."

Graham's laugh was rough but genuine. "God help me."

Lincoln clasped his shoulder. "He has. He sent you that remarkable woman. So don’t be an idiot and push her away in some misguided attempt to protect her.

Let the next chapter in the Chronicles of Graham Redchester have a little light in them.

" He paused at the threshold. "I expect to see you in my office tomorrow. No excuses."

"You have my word."

After Lincoln departed, Graham paced the small room, counting seconds, minutes, eternities. Each tick of the distant clock measured the time slipping away.

The door opened at last. Hodge stood in the entrance, his expression sour. "You're free to go, Your Grace. Dr. Wallace has pronounced you sane enough for civilized society." His tone suggested he harbored doubts.

Graham didn't wait for further explanation. He strode past Hodge into the corridor, eyes immediately seeking?—

"Graham!"

Abigail took a step forward, then stopped, smoothing her skirts. Her hair clung in limp curls. Mud streaked the hem of her gown. Shadows of exhaustion etched deep beneath her eyes.

God, she’s breathtaking.

She waited, hands wringing, as shifted uncertainly. She was giving him space. Even now, bedraggled and exhausted, she was thinking of his pride.

The distance between them was intolerable.

Graham crossed to her in long strides. He stopped just short of touching her, suddenly aware of his disheveled state, the blood on his hands, the stench of the asylum that clung to him.

"Graham," she whispered, lifting her hand to touch his cheek. Graham caught it, pressing it against his face, breathing in the scent of her skin. Words failed him—gratitude, shame, and desperate need tangled in his throat until he could only draw her to him.

She came willingly, her body fitting against his as if designed for this purpose alone. Graham buried his face in her hair, holding on as if she were the only solid thing in a world gone liquid and uncertain.

For this moment, there was only Abigail—her warmth, her strength, her steady heartbeat against his chest.

“I truly hate to interrupt,” the Duke of Sherton said gently, "but the Court of Chancery does not tolerate tardiness."

Graham reluctantly released Abigail, though he kept her hand firmly in his. He turned to the assembled men who had come to his aid.

"I owe you all a debt I cannot repay," he said simply.

"Nonsense," Admiral Birkins harrumphed.

"Family stands for family," the Duke of Wilds added, his quiet voice carrying unexpected steel.

Family. The word resonated in Graham’s chest.

"My carriage awaits," the Duke of Sherton gestured toward the entrance.

As they moved toward the exit, Graham leaned close to Abigail. "The girls?"

"Safe," she assured him. "Between Ms. Norwood, Verity, and my mother, they're better defended than the Crown Jewels." Her fingers tightened around his. "When next you see them, they'll be yours beyond question."

They emerged into the rain-washed morning, the storm having spent its fury during the night. Graham helped Abigail into Sherton's carriage, then settled beside her, acutely aware of the precious weight of her against his side.

As the carriage pulled away from Hallowcross, leaving its shadows behind, something inside him sheered away. Not everything. Not all at once. But enough to breathe, to hope, to fight.

The battle awaited at Chancery Court. But for this moment—this brief, stolen moment with Abigail pressed to his side—Graham allowed himself to believe that some wars could be won, some wounds could heal.