The halls were quieter than usual as Mary walked toward his room.
She didn’t know what she was walking into — whether it would be another storm or the kind of silence that begged for words — but she couldn’t sit alone with the weight of the knife any longer, hidden and humming beneath the silk like a secret too loud to keep.
When she entered, William was standing near the window, shirt loose around his torso, his bandages peeking out beneath the fabric. He didn’t turn at first, just kept his eyes on the garden outside, where the roses bloomed too perfectly under the floodlights.
“You came,” he said quietly.
She stepped inside, her hands clenched at her sides. “You asked.”
He turned then.
His face was pale, still drawn with pain, but his eyes were softer. No fire. Just something she hadn’t seen in him before — something like… hesitation.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, voice low. “About everything. What I said. What you’ve had to learn… all at once.”
She didn’t speak. Just watched him.
He moved closer, slowly, as if testing the ground between them. “I know what it’s like when everything you believe about someone you love turns to ash in your hands. It doesn’t get easier. But it does get clearer.”
Mary swallowed hard. His closeness was already melting the frost around her anger. And that terrified her.
“I shouldn’t have said what I did,” he added. “About your father. Or about you.”
She blinked. “You meant it.”
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I shouldn’t have thrown it at you like a weapon.”
He stepped closer still. Inches now. She could smell him — clean linen, skin, something darker underneath.
“But I do know this,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “You’re my wife now. Not just in paper. In the eyes of God. And whatever we were before, whatever we tried to be to each other… maybe it’s time to turn the page.”
She felt it then — the shift in the air. The thrum beneath her skin.
“There’s something about you,” he said, voice quieter now, almost reverent. “I thought this would be simple. Take my revenge. Make you suffer. Clean score. Done.”
His hand reached for her waist.
“But you weren’t what I expected. You weren’t hardened. You weren’t poisoned. You were just… good. And I couldn’t make myself stop wanting you.”
Mary’s breath hitched. He touched her then, one hand slipping beneath the edge of her robe. His fingers grazed her skin — slow, reverent — as if she were something he might ruin just by wanting too much.
Her body betrayed her first — a gasp, a flicker of heat, her chest rising to meet his.
Their lips met halfway. Desperate. Confused. Real.
His hands moved with a new kind of hunger, pulling her closer, tugging gently at the fabric as it slipped lower, baring her shoulder. Her robe fell open further, and Mary arched into his touch, moaning before she could stop herself.
He moved to slide it off completely. And that’s when it happened.
Clank.
The blade hit the floor. Loud. Metallic. Final.
William froze. His eyes dropped.
Then slowly rose to meet hers.