Berith stood alone in the conservatory.
Sunlight spilled across the breakfast table, the scent of jasmine lingered in the air, mingling with the fading aroma of the tea he had poured for her.
But Marcella was gone now. Her footsteps had long since disappeared down the inn, leaving behind only the echo of her disappointment.
And yet, he still stood there as if by standing long enough, he could undo the damage of his words.
Berith let out a breath, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment. He had watched her walk away, watched the hurt in her purple gaze.
Marcella would know that last night, when she dozed off, Berith had laid her carefully onto the bed, afraid even to touch her skin too long as it would stir something in him, he could no longer suppress. At that moment, he had felt the most dangerous emotion of all: longing.
And this morning? The dress?
