The archive room smells of old paper and candle wax, and I stand frozen as Moira closes the door behind us. Her eyes trace the curve of my hip where the crescent scar marks me, and I know she sees the yielding in me that no one else has ever wanted to keep.

When she tells me to lift my skirts, my hands shake because this moment will change everything, the registry lying open like a contract we both might break if her touch goes further than duty allows. Her strong thighs press near mine and the fear of being cast aside wars with the need to feel her claim me at last. I ache for her mouth on me but the title waits like a third presence in the room, ready to decide which of us it will keep.