I learned early that silence kept me safe from being cast aside. Yet when Connor Bradford's broad frame fills the doorway of the rain-lashed conservatory, his command to step closer pulls at something I have always refused to name.

His fingers circle my wrist, holding me steady while the air thickens between us. The birthmark on my collarbone burns under his gaze as he tells me what the arranged marriage requires here, on the library table, before any vows can protect his title or my place.

The door latches shut. His hand stays on the iron. I feel the careful distance we kept begin to crack under the weight of his need, and I wonder what will remain of the small obedient woman I was once he has taken all that my body can give on the conservatory bench.