Page 32 of Atone, Adonis

She’d let him push her from the room, not because she wanted rest, but because she could not bear the thought of Thomas waking to the sound of her crying. His fever had broken but it had been close.

Too close.

She knew the tears were going to come spilling out, no matter how hard she tried to stop them. And perhaps, she thought, it was time to let them come.

She found her way to the only other bedchamber the staff had prepared, a small guest room near the master, and stoked the fire until it crackled brightly. But the warmth did little for her. Her dress was still damp, clinging coldly to her skin. Shuddering tremors wracked her as the panic slowly drained from her body, leaving exhaustion and dread in their wake. Along with a roiling pit of nausea in her stomach.

She curled herself onto the chaise, knees pulled to her chest, and let the truth in at last.

Thomas was tubercular.

He had been slipping away—bit by bit and breath by breath—since he returned from Crimea. She could no longer pretend he wasn’t. The war had stolen his health, and he was not one of the rare ones who rallied. No broth, blankets, tea, prayers or wishing could turn him back from the path he was on.

Her brother was going to die.

And when he did, there would be no one left who belonged wholly to her. And she, in return, would belong to no one. She bent her head and let the sobs come, harsh and broken, tearing through her throat until she thought she might choke on them. They shook her shoulders, stole her breath, and left her folded in on herself. Too small in the too empty room. And too utterly alone.

She did not hear the door open over the sounds of her own weeping at first, but she felt the shift in the air of another presence anyway—tenuous, as if someone had paused on the threshold and nearly turned back. And then she breathed in the scent of him a moment before he spoke.

“Julianna,” he murmured. “Don’t cry.”

The storm no longer howled outside, but the one in her heart went wild. And in that moment, he was her only shelter from it. But she didn’t turn her face to him, not yet. Because she could not bear to see him hesitate; could not bear it if he turned and fled.

His footsteps edged closer to her and she drew in a hitched breath.

“I don’t know what else to do,” she whispered. “He’s going to die.”

“I know.”

His honesty calmed her in a way no empty promises or lies could. Thomas was going to die. Perhaps not tonight, but too soon.

“Would you like me to stay?”

She should have said no. But she didn’t do that either. She needed comfort; she wanted it from Fred. And just as she had once let Robert Rothchild into her bed when she was grieving and alone, she reached for Fred now and drew him down beside her.

Except she knew they were not the same. Robert had swept her off her feet with too many pretty words she ought to have known better than to believe. When she’d discovered he’d been married the whole while, she hadn’t felt heartbroken so much as foolish.

Fred was the opposite of that. She doubted he could come up with pretty words if he tried. But his actions these last weeks, brusque and unwanted as they had often been, had been rooted in care. And kindness. She could admit that to herself.

So when he perched beside her and placed one tentative hand on her shoulder, she leaned into it.

“Julianna,” he murmured, so close now that his words seemed to brush the shell of her ear. “Jules.”

She shivered. She was cold and her gown was still wet. Or that was what she told herself, anyway. And when his hand brushed her arm again—it was only to provide her with warmth. But what she could not excuse was what she did next: how she reached for his hand and pulled him down beside her until he lay half on and half off the chaise. The room that had seemed so large a moment ago now felt too dreadfully small to hold them both, and she pressed back into him anyway.

She turned so that her face was buried in his chest and his body formed a protective wall around hers. She was not going to move, not when his warmth was right there, so immediate and undeniable. She grasped her fingers into his shirt instead while she let herself be embraced.

One of his hands cradled the back of her head, while the other pinned her close, as if his arms alone could keep her from falling apart. Perhaps, just for tonight, they could.

She didn’t know how long they stayed that way. She didn’t care.

Eventually, when her tears had run themselves dry he whispered, “Jules,” and began to ease himself back from her.

“No.” She didn’t know where that word, rough and hoarse from her throat, had come from. “Stay. Don’t leave me tonight.”

His eyes flicked to hers and she saw his pupils widen and darken. His thumb brushed the curve of her cheek, lingering at her jaw. She parted her lips without realizing it. For a moment she had the insane notion that he might kiss her. Instead his breath hitched and his jaw clenched; he was holding even his muscles in a rigid check.

She leaned into him harder, reckless in her grief. If she was going to fall apart, let it be into something warm. Let it be into him.