Chapter 169

Chapter 56

That night, Graham had made a fatal assumption—that things couldn’t possibly get worse.

After all, what could top a wedding night that had ended with his bride screaming in pain, blood staining the sheets, and the town’s only doctor being dragged out of bed to examine her? Surely, from here on, things had to get better.

God, how wrong he’d been.

Because things did get worse. Much, much worse.

The moment the old doctor left, Graham lingered by the staircase, running a hand through his hair, the weight of it all settling like lead in his chest. He could still hear the echo of Isla’s muffled sobs from the bedroom above, and the image of her lying there—eyes squeezed shut, cheeks burning with humiliation—clawed at him.

His jaw tightened. Damn it. He hadn't meant to hurt her. He hadn't meant for any of this. But what did that matter? Intent didn’t erase bloodstains.

He grimaced and started up the stairs, each step heavy with dread. His body ached with frustration, guilt, and something sharper—something that felt like failure. And Graham Lancaster did not handle failure well.

The memory of The silk of her wedding nightgown was rumpled around her hips, the fabric askew from where the doctor had conducted his humiliating exam. Graham squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to erase the memory. The way she had lain there, stiff and silent, cheeks stained pink while Dr. Holloway prodded and questioned her.

"Was this your first time being intimate with a man, Mrs. Lancaster?"

He had wanted to punch the old man then, despite knowing it was necessary.

But Isla's expression had been worse. The burning shame in her eyes, the way her lips had trembled as she whispered, "Yes," like it was some confession of guilt. He didn’t doubt that this memory was going to be one of his recurring nightmares.

Graham stood at the bedroom door, his hand resting on the brass handle, hesitating for the first time in his life. How the hell were they supposed to bounce back from this?

The night had gone spectacularly wrong, and the fragile intimacy that had once simmered between them now lay in tatters, much like the ruined bedsheets still crumpled on the mattress. The thought of facing Isla’s wide, wounded eyes made his chest constrict with something uncomfortably close to guilt—an emotion he was neither familiar with nor fond of.

He needed a plan. A gesture. Something to soften the sharp edges of the night.

Maybe a peace offering.

He shoved a hand through his hair and turned away from the bedroom. The corridor stretched before him, dimly lit by the flickering sconces on the walls. The servants had all vanished, no doubt whispering about the spectacle that had unfolded hours earlier. He could already imagine it: The new Mrs. Lancaster screamed bloody murder on her wedding night. Poor girl. Wonder what the master did to her.

He ground his teeth at the thought and stalked toward the kitchen. Let them talk. He didn’t owe anyone an explanation. His only concern was the woman lying upstairs, probably curled beneath the blankets, aching and humiliated.

As he descended the stairs, his footsteps echoed through the silent manor. The kitchen door creaked as he pushed it open, revealing an empty space that smelled faintly of bread and herbs. The servants had abandoned their posts for the night, leaving the room cold and uninviting.

“Of course,” he muttered, lips twisting into a wry smirk. When I need them, they scatter like frightened mice.

His eyes swept the kitchen until they landed on the old oak cabinet by the stove. He strode over, yanked it open, and found exactly what he was looking for: cocoa powder.

He didn’t particularly like hot cocoa. The stuff was far too sweet for his taste—like drinking melted candy. But Isla used to love it. She'd once confessed that cocoa was her comfort drink, the thing she turned to when she needed warmth or reassurance.

Well, if ever there was a time to need comfort, it was tonight.

He grabbed the cocoa, a jug of milk from the icebox, and set them on the counter. The kettle groaned as he filled it and placed it on the stove.

He muttered another curse, picked up the jug, and poured the steaming milk into two mugs. One for Isla. One for himself.

He didn’t actually want it. What he really wanted was a glass of whiskey—something with a bite to burn away the frustration coiled in his chest. But Isla wouldn’t appreciate the stench of alcohol on his breath, not after the night they'd had.

Hot milk it is.

Balancing both cups, he headed back up the stairs. His steps slowed as he neared the bedroom. The door stood slightly ajar, the crack of warm lamplight spilling into the hallway. He nudged it open with his shoulder and stepped inside.

The bedroom was cloaked in shadows, the only light coming from the small bedside lamp casting a dim, golden glow. Graham stood beside the bed, cradling a mug of hot cocoa in his hands, and stared at the lump beneath the blankets. Isla had cocooned herself from head to toe, the duvet pulled up so tightly that she looked like a child hiding from a nightmare.

Except this nightmare was real. And he was part of it.

He exhaled slowly. "Isla." His voice was low, almost tentative—an unfamiliar tone for a man like him.

The blanket trembled. She was shaking. If he didn’t know better, he might’ve thought she was asleep. But that fine tremor gave her away.

"I know you're awake," he said softly. "Please…look at me."

For a moment, nothing happened. Then, slowly, the top of the blanket shifted. A dark head peeked out, and two wary eyes appeared beneath the edge of the duvet.

Graham forced a smile he didn’t feel. "Here," he said, crouching slightly as he extended the mug toward her. "I made you hot cocoa."

She hesitated. And in that moment, she reminded him of a stray animal—one that had spent too many nights out in the rain, too many days fending off cruel hands and cold streets. She was small and fragile, her eyes full of mistrust.

Her hand reached for the mug, fingers trembling as they wrapped around the handle. For a brief second, her skin brushed his. The instant contact made her recoil, her hand jerking back like she'd touched fire.

The sharp sting in his chest surprised him.

It wasn’t personal, he told himself. It had been a traumatic night, and she was just shaken. That’s all it is.

He swallowed hard and dropped his gaze to the mug in her lap. His knuckles turned white against the ceramic of his own cup as the silence stretched.

"Isla," he tried again.

"Hmm?" Her response was little more than a hum, her eyes fixed on the swirling liquid in her cup as though the secrets of the universe lay hidden in the cocoa.

"Look at me," he said, more gently this time. His hand twitched with the urge to tilt her chin up—but he resisted. Forcing her would only make it worse. "Please."

A long pause. Then, finally, she raised her eyes to his.

The sight gutted him.

She was trying to mask it, trying to build some kind of emotional wall. But he could see it all: the confusion, the shame, the fear. She was withdrawing from him, brick by painful brick, and he had no idea how to stop it.

"You know I didn’t mean to hurt you, right?" His voice was hoarse, his chest tight.

"Of course not," she said instantly. But the way she said it—so quick, so automatic—felt more like reassurance for him than belief from her.

His jaw clenched. "And you also know…it won’t always be like this. That it doesn't always hurt when a man and woman make love?"

She gave a jerky nod. "Yes. I heard what the doctor said."

Her words were logical. Her expression said otherwise. The uncertainty was right there, etched into the soft line of her mouth, the way her gaze darted away after she spoke.

"Okay," Graham said, biting back everything else he wanted to say. If he pushed her now, she'd only retreat further. And the truth was, she looked exhausted—physically, emotionally, in every way possible.

He turned away and walked to his side of the bed. His hand hovered over the lamp for a moment before switching it off. The room plunged into darkness, broken only by the pale slivers of moonlight slipping through the curtains.

He lay down, careful to leave space between them. Nearly a foot of untouched mattress separated their bodies, and yet it felt like miles.

The mattress dipped as Isla turned onto her side, away from him. The faint rustle of sheets was the only sound in the room.