She could not answer. Not yet.
But he saw it in her eyes when she failed to deny him.
He stepped into the hall.
Lila braced her palm against the edge of the pianoforte.
Her world had shifted. Not because of Fenwick. Not because of danger. Because Marcus had stopped hiding.
And she no longer knew how to hide from herself.
Later that evening,after dinner, Wolfton Hall had begun to settle for the night. Marcus paused outside Henry’s bedchamber, his hand resting on the doorframe as if the house itself required a moment’s courtesy before he entered.
Henry lay sprawled across the pillows, one arm flung wide, the woolen dog tucked beneath his chin. His mouth had fallen open in sleep, lashes dark against flushed cheeks.
Marcus smiled despite himself.
Custard, he thought.
He could see it still. The faint smear at the corner of Henry’s mouth. Bessie allowing it with theatrical disapproval. Theseus pretending not to notice as Henry leaned closer to the table, earnest and determined to capture every last spoonful.
The boy breathed evenly now. Utterly untroubled. Safe.
Marcus crossed the room and pulled the blanket higher, careful not to wake him. Henry shifted, murmured something unintelligible, then settled again.
“You kept it,” Marcus whispered, the words meant for more than music.
He remained a moment longer, letting the quiet do its work. This was what steadied him. Not the house. Not the name. This small, unguarded trust.
At last, he straightened and stepped back into the corridor, closing the door with the softest click.
By the time he reached his study, the man who entered it was no longer only a father standing watch.
He was older. Deliberate. And he was done pretending otherwise.
Lila’s voice followed him, lingering in the hush of the house.
You must not say such things.
Because I cannot bear it.
That you might mean them.
He stood in the stillness, eyes closed, recalling the warmth of her nearness. Something that had lain dormant too long came sharply into focus.
He could no longer pretend to be distant, not after this.
The walk to his chamber felt altered. Not heavier, but more defined. Each step shed another layer of the careful, muted man he had worn for years.
The door closed behind him.
The mirror waited.
Marcus faced it. The reflection that met him was familiar but sharpened. Grey at the temples. Lines earned honestly. But not hollow. Not dulled. Not drifting through half-light.
He saw the man Lila had looked at as if he were worth saving. The man Henry trusted without hesitation. The man he had once been and the man he had refused to reclaim.
Wolf.