Page 66 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“No,” Fanny said, her voice ringing out through the quiet hall, sharp and unyielding.

Lysander froze on the bottom step, his back still turned to her.

Fanny stepped in front of him, blocking his path. Her dark green silk skirts rustled softly against the stone, the heavy emeralds at her throat catching the dim sconce light. Her amber eyes blazed with an unshakeable, fearless resolve, her chest rising and falling in sharp, agitated breaths.

“You will not walk away from me tonight, Lysander,” Fanny declared, her tone dropping into a fierce, breathless whisper that demanded an answer. “You stood in the middle of that ballroom, struck a nobleman before half of London, and declared me yours before every gossiping tongue in the peerage. You shattered years of your own carefully guarded peace in a single second. I do not need to ask why you hit him, Lysander—I saw the rage in your eyes—but I deserve to know why you chose tonight to lay everything bare before the entire world!”

Lysander slowly turned his head to look down at her. His dark gray eyes were wild, blown wide with a turbulent, dangerous emotion she had never seen in him before. The cold, impenetrable armor he wore so proudly was gone, leaving his harsh, angular features raw and exposed.

“You wish to know why, Fanny?” Lysander rumbled, his gravelly voice dropping into a low, terrifying register that vibrated through the floorboards.

He stepped down off the riser, closing the distance between them until his massive frame towered over her, shutting out the rest of the dark hall.

“I did it because I am broken,” Lysander rasped, his voice rough, dragged straight from the depths of a chest that sounded as though it were tearing apart. He reached out, his large, calloused hands coming up to grasp her arms—not with force, but with a desperate, trembling intensity. “I am broken, Fanny. And you broke me.”

Fanny blinked, a sudden, sharp sting of shock cutting through her anger. She looked up into his dark, tormented face, her brow drawing together in deep confusion.

“I broke you?” Fanny whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she searched his eyes. “How can you possibly say that? I came to this house to care for your children. I have offered you nothing but patience, understanding, and peace! How can you stand there and blame me for your own violent outbursts?”

“Because I was whole before you arrived!” Lysander roared softly, the words tearing past his throat like a confession dragged out under torture.

He let go of her arms, pacing two restless steps across the flagstones before spinning back to face her, his dark hair falling wildly across his forehead.

“Before you walked into my life, I was master of myself!” he rumbled, pressing a heavy, gloved fist against his own chest. “I knew precisely who I was. I was cold. I was orderly. I built stone walls around this house and around my heart so that nothing—no one—could ever touch me or my children again! I lived in quiet, predictable, uncomplicated shadows!”

He took a broad step toward her, his dark gray eyes pinning her to the spot with a raw, terrifying honesty that made Fanny’s breath catch in her throat.

“And then you stepped through my front door,” Lysander continued, his gravelly voice cracking beneath the weight of his own admissions. “You brought noise, and light, and chaos. You laughed in my face when I tried to scold you. You challenged my rules, you charmed my children, and you systematically tore down every single defense I spent years building.”

He reached out, his large, rough hand lifting to hover an inch from her cheek, his fingers trembling with a wild, unrestrained heat.

“Now, I am no longer myself,” Lysander whispered, his tone dropping into a thick, desperate confession that sent a violent shiver straight down Fanny’s spine. “I cannot sleep because my mind is filled with the scent of your skin. I cannot focus on my ledgers because I am listening for the sound of your laugh in the corridor. When another man touched your hand tonight, when that fool put his arm around your waist, I wanted to tear the room apart with my bare hands. I felt a murderous, feral madness that I have never known in my entire life!”

Fanny stood entirely frozen, her heart thumping frantically against her ribs, her parted lips trembling as his words washed over her.

“I do not know how to exist like this, Fanny,” Lysander growled softly, his thumb finally coming down to brush over her cheekbone, his touch burning like fire against her skin. “I do not know how to be a man who feels everything so violently. You have stripped away my armor, and you have left me completely helpless.”

“Lysander…” Fanny breathed, her amber eyes shining with sudden, luminous tears. The anger that had fueled her moments ago evaporated completely, replaced by a profound, breathtaking warmth that flooded every corner of her soul. She reached up, placing her small, warm palm over his large hand where it rested against her cheek. “That is not being broken. That is coming back to life.”

“It feels like dying,” Lysander rasped, his eyes burning with a dark, unyielding hunger.

“Then let it,” Fanny whispered fearlessly, stepping a fraction of an inch closer until her soft body was pressed flush against the broad, hard plane of his chest. “Stop fighting it, Lysander. Stop fighting me.”

A low, ragged groan tore from deep within Lysander’s chest.

His last remaining thread of control snapped. His arm swept around her waist with possessive, terrifying strength, hauling her up against his frame until her toes barely brushed the stone floor. His other hand tangled itself firmly in the thick, dark waves at the back of her head, tilting her chin upward.

Before Fanny could draw another breath, his mouth slammed down onto hers.

The kiss was wild, fierce, and thick with the overwhelming torrent of emotions he had kept locked away for years. It was a demand, a surrender, and a desperate plea, all at once. Lysander claimed her lips with a harsh, breathtaking intensity that tasted of rain, dark wine, and pure, unvarnished desire.

Fanny let out a soft, helpless gasp against his mouth, her arms instantly wrapping around his neck as her fingers buried themselves in his dark hair. She did not retreat from his intensity; she met it, opening for him with eager, breathless passion that sent a wave of liquid fire surging through his veins.

Lysander deepened the kiss, his tongue tracing the seam of her lips before plunging in, drinking in her soft sighs as if she were the only air left in a suffocating world. His grip on her waist tightened, holding her close and proving to them both that the cold, silent walls of Hilgrove Manor had finally fallen forever.

He broke the kiss only to sweep her into his arms, the motion so sudden it stole her breath. One arm banded around her back, the other hooked under her knees, lifting her as if she weighed nothing.

Fanny clung to his neck, her face buried in the rain-damp wool of his coat, her heart hammering a frantic, wild rhythm against her ribs. The taste of him—dark wine, raw desire, and the storm itself—still burned on her lips, a brand that claimed her from the inside out.