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She sat back, running out of excuses and short on willpower. “What of Madame Marie? She was the only one who cared for me when I was ill. I can’t leave her with nothing. I must go back and give her bread.”

“I will ensure she has enough to buy bread until the Estates-General adjourns,” Rollant promised.

The question from the night prior pounded on her mind’s door until it blurted out.

“Are you rich, Rollant?” she asked. “How can you afford this home? How can you afford to make promises to feed a family for months, perhaps even a year? Tell me I can live here for three years without paying so much as a livre ?”

His hand slipped to hers. His thumb slid up and down her forefinger. His eyes held no deception, and his words were deliberate. “If I told you how I can afford such a place,”—he leaned forward with the sear of agony branded in his gaze and a whisper on his lips—“you would not believe me.”

His words reached her heart and squeezed. “What did you do?” she asked.

“If you stay in Charonne, I will tell you when I return,” he said. “And hope you believe me.”

“You have not given me a reason to think you would lie to me,” she replied. “Tell me now.”

He shook his head. A glint crossed his eyes. “You would never look at me the same way again,” he whispered.

He was ashamed, she realized. Whatever it was, it could wait. He gave her so much. Yes, it could wait. She turned her hand in his and squeezed in affirmation. “If you provide for Madame Marie, I will stay in Charonne until the Estates-General is adjourned and agreement on reform is reached.”

He blinked back the glisten, and a soft sigh of relief forced out of his chest. “I’m glad,” he said and sat back, returning to his breakfast.

She ate her eggs in silence, wondering what he had done to secure such an allotment of coin and if she would have to stay alone in this place. But did she have to stay alone?

But before she could ask him to desert the king’s navy, he scooped up the empty bowls and plates.

“I will teach you to survive the fight you may find yourself in should the Estates-General fail or if a man tries to harm you again.” He placed the dishes in the basin.

“Bring the knife I put by your coat. I will ready the room.”

She finished her tea and brought her cup to the basin as he washed them all.

She did as he asked but stopped to look at him in the doorway.

He was a mystery, one she wanted to know.

The need to unravel his secrets made him more desirable.

Because in his secrecy, he dangled nothing in front of her out of ill gain. Everything was her choice.

The dagger was where he had placed it the night prior.

Its weight felt different than the baker’s knife.

The dagger was a weapon meant to kill rather than feed.

Dark blood stained the hilt. She swallowed the lump in the back of her throat, envisioning the men who’d been stabbed with it.

A deep breath filled her lungs as she settled her nerves.

The screech of furniture sliding across the wooden floors brought her back to the present. She returned to the main room to find Rollant standing in the cleared room, with the table and chairs next to the sofa.

“Please, come stand here,” he said, gesturing to the spot beside him.

She obeyed.

“Now, face the bedroom door, and place the knife in your coat pocket.”

Rollant stood, facing her profile, with one hand tightly wound behind his back. His posture was unwavering professionalism. Her gaze lingered on his handsome face. The shadow of stubble on his chin plucked him from perfection. His jaw tensed when he stepped closer.

His hand covered her hand, his fingers laying atop hers—warm, calloused, steady.

“If a man attacks you, you will first pull your blade up.” His breath, edged with mint and sage, brushed her temple. She resisted the urge to lean into Rollant’s presence, to anchor herself in the moment.

He reached her hand into her coat pocket. The dagger’s handle fit perfectly in her palm. The blade felt heavier in her grip, as if weighted with purpose.

He moved her hand in a swift, fluid movement to brandish the blade. “Anticipate he will attempt to hit you in the face, so you must either stab him first or block his blow.”

He moved her hand again as if it were a dance or a soft beat in a rhythm as he guided her to practice both movements. “And again,” he said, releasing her hand. “Return the dagger to your pocket,” he said with a quiver in his voice.

She glanced up to find him looking at her as if searching for something.

His hand overlaid hers. “Pull the blade up,” he said again, guiding her hand through the motions.

Her heart thrummed louder with every deliberate movement.

His fingers tightened over hers, gently insisting that she follow his lead.

She tried to focus on the blade, on the imagined threat of Gabin, but the weight of his presence pushed all else from her mind.

His breath faltered when their gazes met. Their faces were too close, but neither pulled away. His eyes lingered in her hold, spilling all his secrets into an indecipherable pool for her to swim. But as quickly as the vulnerability appeared, his eyes shifted and returned guarded once more.

“Now you,” he said, his tone cool, the warmth stripped away again. “Without my aid.”

Her grip on the blade tightened as Rollant stepped back.

The weapon felt foreign in her hand, yet in its weight, she felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—control.

It was the culmination of the gift he’d given her: control over her life.

He’d become her refuge from pain, where no one dared to harm her.

Rollant narrated the scene. “A man grabs you by the shoulders; he intends to assault you.”

She pulled the blade up, slicing upward as Rollant had shown her.

“His right hand is winding to punch you in the face.”

She turned the blade to stab first.

“Too late.” Rollant’s voice cut through the room. “You’ve been hit.” He stepped close and grasped her elbow with precision, sliding his hand to her wrist, and redirected her movement in a firm but careful grip. “Like this, élise.”

She tried to focus on the movements, but his closeness and his familiar, comforting scent clouded her thoughts.

Her pulse quickened, and her grip faltered.

She wanted to turn into him and beg him to give up his career as she would relinquish her fight to stay in Charonne together.

Never had she met a man such as Rollant.

Never would she let him go. Never would she find another man such as him.

“Focus,” he said as if reading her mind.

She countered with frustration’s stain upon her cheeks. “It is hard to fight an imaginary man.”

He stepped in front of her with squared shoulders and a challenge. “Then fight me. I am Gabin. I’ve already hit you, and you fear what I might do to you.”

He grasped both of her shoulders, firm but far from pain.

“I am going to corner you,” he whispered, guiding her backward and pressing her against the wall with a gentle hold. The plaster cooled her body and slowed her racing heartbeat.

She leaned her head back against the wall and exposed her neck to him.

The weight of everything he had done and was doing crashed over her.

The hot sting of mint touched the gash on her lip, but she wanted to draw him in.

The man had killed before; he was dangerous and deadly, yet with her, she knew he’d never raise a fist. He had earned her trust, her complete trust. No one had ever done such a thing before.

She slipped the dagger into her coat pocket and placed a hand on his belly and the other on his chest. They locked eyes.

His gaze dipped to her lips and lingered in silent hunger.

His words ceased. His breath slowed. Her stomach fluttered.

Desire charged the space between them. She wanted to erase the distance between them.

His fingers slipped to her neck and cradled her cheek, weakening her knees.

His thumb stroked the fatty flesh of her bottom lip with a tender touch.

Her heart thundered as she waited—hoped—for him to close the distance.

Her mouth parted to receive her first kiss born in love, but Rollant stepped back, letting his hands fall away in fists to his sides, taking the moment with it.

The blaze of his touch lingered on her skin, a ghostly imprint that faded too quickly.

She blinked in rapid succession, trying to mask the sting of disappointment.

“You need to raise your blade.” His voice lowered, and regret laced his words. He jerked one hand behind his back as if to keep from reaching for her again. His brow furrowed, and fear lived in his eyes.

élise shook her head as she tried to determine what he feared: losing her, leaving her, loving her like Amée.

She let her hand drop to her side, her gaze fixed on the empty space he had left between them.

What had she expected? For him to close the distance, to press his lips to hers, to shatter the careful distance he had maintained since their paths crossed?

Of course not. Rollant wasn’t like other men.

He held himself apart. Whatever kept him from her, she knew it was tied to the sorrow that haunted his eyes.

She swallowed hard, willing herself to let the moment go, though the ache in her chest refused to fade. Her throat tightened.

“I cannot raise a blade to you, Rollant.” Her voice broke. “Even though you pretend to be Gabin, you are nothing like him.” Tears brimmed her eyes, and the truth slipped free. “You are my sanctuary.”

Rollant stilled. His lips parted as if to speak.

Instead, he turned away before any words came.

His broad shoulders tensed, mirroring the wall he’d built around his heart rise once more.

Once he faced her again, he spoke in his usual steady tone, though his affection faded.

“If you can’t raise a blade to me, how will you survive should you find yourself in a fight, especially if you return to the city? ”

Her gaze met his, unflinching. “Because I will remember that all men are not like you.” Her words carried the weight of conviction.

His expression grew unreadable, but his weight shifted. His tight shoulders loosened.

“Again,” he said, his tone faltering in the truth he tried to ignore.

She pulled the dagger from her coat pocket.

His hand brushed against hers once more as he adjusted the weapon in her grasp with the same precision as before. He guided her next movement, deliberate and impersonal, as if he sought to erase the intimacy that had passed between them.

Yet élise couldn’t forget. Her chest tightened with each touch and every whispered instruction.

His words barely registered, drowned out by the thrum of her pulse and the lingering ache of what might have been.

She wanted to ask why he had pulled away, to demand answers to the questions swirling in her mind.

But his tone had shifted, and the admiration in his voice was stripped away.

It seemed it was merely training for him, yet his glances lingered a moment too long. For élise, though, she resolved to break through his defenses and find the man she saw in his rare moments of vulnerability, even if it meant risking her heart.