chapter 13

Whatever else may come of this night, he would not—could not—be accused of impropriety.

Blindfolded, he extended his hands, carefully reaching for her form. His fingers brushed against the damp fabric of her nightdress, and at once, an unnatural stiffness overtook his entire frame. He had steeled himself for this—had thought himself prepared for what had to be done—but as his hands met the delicate curve of her shoulders, a tremor ran down his spine. His grip faltered, just for a moment, before he caught himself.

This is unbecoming. Utterly inappropriate. A violation of every standard of dignity. And yet, doing nothing would be worse. The cold was unrelenting, the dampness of her garments clinging to her skin in a way that would soon render her feverish, or worse. Allowing her to suffer, or—God forbid—perish, would be an inexcusable negligence on his part. No, he had no choice.

A fleeting, ridiculous thought passed through his mind: What if I were to simply toss her near the fire? The heat would dry her, would it not? He dismissed the notion immediately, shaking his head at his own madness. Absolutely not.

Still, his hands trembled as he reached for the fastenings of her nightdress. The small clasps were delicate beneath his fingers, their intricate design mocking his every hesitation. With an uneasy exhale, he forced his mind to focus elsewhere—anywhere but the disgraceful task at hand. And so, he did what he always did in times of distress: he lectured.

“As you may well know, Miss Winter,” he murmured under his breath, his voice strained but still composed, “the great monument erected in the last century stands as a testament to the empire’s architectural advancements. Its foundations were laid with—” He paused, his breath hitching as the last fastening came undone. Beneath his fingertips, he felt the coolness of her skin, the slow rise and fall of her breath.

He swallowed thickly.

Compose yourself, Blackwell.

Forcing himself to focus, he withdrew his hands and reached blindly for the shirt he had set aside. But in his moment of hesitation, he failed to realize that he had neglected to release his hold on her shoulders.

And then, quite suddenly, she slumped forward.

Her weight collapsed against him, her head pressing into his chest, the scent of lavender and something faintly sweet lingering in her damp hair. He stiffened instantly, his muscles locking as though he had been struck by lightning. Though his sight remained obscured by the blindfold, every other sense was heightened—her warmth, the softness of her form, the way her breath ghosted against his collarbone. His pulse quickened, his thoughts scattering in every direction.

This—this was not supposed to happen.

For the first time in his life, Damien Blackwell felt something utterly foreign—a visceral reaction, an inexplicable heat pooling in his gut. His breath came in uneven, shallow draws, his body betraying his carefully cultivated self-control. He was accustomed to discipline, to rigid restraint, to the unyielding structure of logic and order. And yet, with the simple weight of her against him, all of that unraveled in an instant.

What is this? The scholar in him demanded an answer, but none presented itself.

With a deep inhale, he forced his limbs to obey him, shifting just enough to maneuver the dry shirt over her frame. His fingers fumbled only once, the buttons slipping from his grasp before he secured them in place. When at last he was done, he carefully laid her back upon the mattress, exhaling a breath he had not realized he had been holding.

Standing, he ripped the blindfold from his eyes and cast it aside, dragging a hand over his face. His gaze fell upon her sleeping form, the rise and fall of her chest far too steady, far too peaceful—entirely ignorant of the turmoil she had just unleashed within him.

His jaw clenched.

Let the day break, Miss Winter, and should you recall any of this upon waking, know that I shall murder you.

Yet another thought, far more dangerous, crept into his mind, whispering its treacherous truths. I have now touched you—not with my eyes, but with my hands. There shall be no divorce, my lady. You are mine now.

Tearing himself away from the dangerous path his mind threatened to take, Damien turned his attention to the infant, ensuring that the temporary walls he had built around her remained secure. Carefully, he lifted the child, cradling her in the crook of his arm as he guided the milk bottle to her lips. She fed without fuss, her tiny fingers curling instinctively against his sleeve. A quiet, soothing warmth settled over him as he watched her, an unfamiliar but not unwelcome sensation.

But then, just as he moved to place her back on the mattress, something wholly unexpected occurred.

The infant, in her innocent need, pressed her face to Kara’s chest, her small mouth instinctively seeking nourishment through the fabric of Damien’s shirt.

He froze.

A deep, unbidden flush spread across his face, burning from the tips of his ears to the base of his collar. His breath caught, his entire body rendered utterly motionless by the sheer impropriety of what he was witnessing.

God above, he thought, his pulse roaring in his ears. This is improper on every conceivable level.

His mind reeled, frantically recalling the passage he had read earlier that morning regarding an infant's natural inclination toward its mother for sustenance. This… this is nothing but instinct. A mere biological response. And yet, the image before him was enough to send a second wave of heat crashing through him, a reaction he swiftly—and desperately—willed away.

With slow, deliberate caution, he took a measured step backward. Then another.

There were many things in life Damien Blackwell could handle—heated debates, complex theorems, even the looming weight of familial duty. But this?

This, he admitted begrudgingly, was beyond my comprehension.

Without a second thought, he spun on his heel and strode toward the adjoining chamber, throwing open the door to his private bath. The cool air within greeted him like a long-lost friend, promising solace from the catastrophic events of the evening. He reached for the basin of water, and with little ceremony, tossed its contents over his face. The cold stung his skin, jolting him from his spiraling thoughts. But it was not enough.

No, something stronger was needed.

With a muttered curse, he shed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and prepared himself for what was to come.

An ice bath—his only salvation.

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