The crying wakes me past midnight—soft at first, then building into the hiccupping sobs of a child pulled from a nightmare into worse reality. The realization that comfort won't come.
I'm out of bed before I've fully decided to move, my bare feet cold against the stone floor. The corridor is dark except for a sliver of lamplight coming from Isla's door, left slightly ajar.
I reach it and stop.
Domnall is already there. He sits on the edge of Isla's bed, still dressed, his shirt rumpled like he never made it to his own room. Isla is curled against him, her face pressed into his shoulder, her whole body shaking.
"It's all right." His voice is low, steady. "I'm here. I’m here for you."
"She was calling for me." Isla's words come out muffled, broken. "But I couldn't find her. I kept running and running…"
"It was just a dream." He holds her tighter. "Your mother isn't lost. She's gone, but she's not lost."
"How do you know?"
He doesn't answer. His throat works, he presses his lips to the top of her head instead, his eyes closing.
They stay like that for long minutes. Eventually, Isla's breathing slows, her grip on his shirt loosens. He shifts her gently back onto the pillow, pulling the blanket up around her shoulders.
His hands shake—just slightly, enough that I notice.
He tucks the blanket in, his movements careful, deliberate. When he stands, he looks hollowed out. Emptied.
I should leave, go back to my room, pretend I didn't see this.
I don't move.
He turns toward the door and sees me standing there. He freezes for half a second, then gestures toward the corridor. I step back. He follows, pulling the door nearly closed behind him, leaving just enough gap to hear if she wakes again.
"I didn't mean to disturb you." His voice is rough, scraped raw.
"You didn't. I heard her crying."
"She has nightmares. About her mother." He runs a hand through his hair. "They started a few months ago. I don't know why."
"She's six. Old enough to understand loss even if she doesn't remember what she lost."
He nods but doesn't speak. He starts walking, but not toward his room—toward the stairs.
I follow without invitation.
We end up in a sitting room I haven't been in before. Smaller than the main parlors, clearly his space—books stacked on side tables, papers scattered across a desk, the fire burned down to embers.
He moves to a cabinet and pulls out a bottle of whisky, pours two fingers into a glass. Then just stands there, staring at it.
"Do you want to talk about it?" The question comes out quieter than I intended.
"About what?" He doesn't look at me.
"Her mother."
His jaw tightens. He sets the glass down untouched and moves to the window. The moon is bright enough that I can see his reflection in the glass—shoulders tight, hands gripping the window frame.
"Sorcha was a good woman." The words come out careful, measured. "Kind, patient. She deserved better than what I gave her."
"What did you give her?"
"Respect. Safety. A marriage that looked real from the outside." He exhales slowly. "Everything except what mattered."
I move closer, not too close. "She knew?"
"No." His voice cracks on the word. "That's what makes it worse. She believed it was real, that I loved her. That we were building something together." He turns to face me. "My mother arranged the marriage. I was twenty-four, Sorcha was nineteen. I barely knew her."
"You tried to make it work."
"I performed." The bitterness in his voice is sharp enough to cut. "I said the right things, did the right things, tried to be the husband she deserved. But I didn't love her. Couldn't love her. And when she died…"
He stops, his hands ball into fists at his sides.
"When she died giving birth to Isla, all I felt was guilt." The confession comes out raw. "Not heartbreak, not the grief a man should feel losing his wife. Just guilt that I'd failed her. That she'd died inside a marriage I was going through the motions of while she believed it was real."
"Domnall…"
"She deserved better than me." His voice is breaking. "She deserved someone who loved her the way she loved me, someone who wasn't pretending."
I close the distance between us. "You didn't fail her because you're broken."
"Didn't I?" He looks at me. His eyes are red-rimmed. "What kind of man marries a woman and can't even—"
"You failed her because she wasn't the right person." The words come out fierce. "Not because you're incapable of love. Because you were forced into something neither of you chose."
"I could have tried harder."
"You can't force love. It doesn't work that way." I'm standing too close now. I can see the way his chest is rising and falling, too fast. "You gave her kindness, respect, safety. You gave her a child she wanted. That's not nothing."
"It wasn't enough."
"Maybe not. But it doesn't mean you're broken." My hands are shaking. I press them flat against my thighs. "It means you married the wrong person."
He's staring at me. Something in his expression is shifting, cracking open.
"I convinced myself I wasn't capable of it." His voice has gone quiet. "Love. Real love. That there was something missing in me that made me…" He stops. "That the one time I felt something real was a mistake, an anomaly."
He doesn't say Carvenmoor, he doesn't have to.
The air between us is too thin. My pulse is hammering in my throat.
"It wasn't a mistake." The words slip out before I can stop them.
"Wasn't it?" He takes a step closer. "I left you there. Woke up before dawn with business I couldn't ignore and told myself I'd find you when I got back. By the time I returned, you were gone. Vanished. I looked, asked everywhere, but you'd disappeared."
He stops. His jaw works. "And then seven years later you walk into my sitting room and I—" His voice cracks. "You felt real. You feel real."
We're standing too close, his chest is inches from mine. I can feel the heat coming off him. I should step back, put distance between us, remember who I am and what I'm hiding.
His hand lifts slowly, like he's giving me time to move away. His fingers brush my cheek, feather-light, testing.
I forget how to breathe.
"Mairead." My name in his mouth sounds like a prayer and a question. His thumb traces along my jaw. "If this is wrong–just tell me. Tell me and I’ll step back."
I can't. My mouth has gone dry, my skin is on fire where he's touching me. Every rational thought I have is drowning under the weight of wanting this, wanting him, wanting to lean into this touch and stop carrying lies alone.
His other hand lifts, framing my face. His eyes are dark, searching mine for permission.
Footsteps sound in the corridor outside—sharp, purposeful, getting closer.
We break apart quickly. His hands drop, I step back until my spine hits the bookshelf.
The door opens. A servant—the same iron-haired woman from my first day—appears in the doorway. She looks between us, her expression carefully neutral.
"Apologies, my lord. I heard voices and wanted to ensure everything was well."
"Everything's fine, Mrs. Kerr." Domnall's voice is steady, controlled. "Mrs. Farren heard Isla crying. We were discussing her nightmares."
Mrs. Kerr nods slowly. Her gaze lingers on me for a beat too long. "Of course. Will you need anything else?"
"No. Thank you."
She leaves, the door closes behind her.
The silence stretches. I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my face.
"I should go." The words barely make it out. "It's late."
"Mairead—"
"Goodnight." I move toward the door before he can finish, before I can change my mind. Before I do something that destroys everything.
I don't look back, but I can feel his eyes on me all the way down the corridor, and the weight of what almost happened is burning a hole through my chest with every step I take.