Despite the dismissiveness of his comment, Daroc did not leave my side. After a moment of silence, he spoke. “I…did not mean that,” he said and paused. “Isolde is seeking stability and familiarity because her world falls apart no matter the direction she turns. Today, during court, I saw her looking to you for safety because that is what she does—only, you did not save her. You pushed her into the fire again.”

I wanted to say so many things.

I know what I did to make her angry. What else was I supposed to do?

Fuck.

But as I thought about Daroc’s words, I knew what he was trying to say—Isolde did not trust me to keep her safe.

And why should she?

I had not been able to save her all those years ago.

She feared history repeating itself.

“I must go to my wife,” I said, but before I left, I met Daroc’s gaze.

“Before dawn breaks, bring my sword.”

Then, I went in search of Isolde.

It was not hard to find her. She never came to my bed when she was angry with me, but as I made my way to her floor, I found Killian leaving her chamber. I stayed in the shadows until he passed, frustration heating my blood, then I entered her room. She sat at her vanity, brushing out her hair.

She did not even look at me.

“Did you have a nice chat with your commander?” I asked.

“Do not,” she said, turning toward me.

“What?” I goaded. “I saw him leave your room.”

“He came to see if I was all right.”

“Which warranted an invitation into your room?”

“Are you going to accuse me of fucking him?”

We sat in our anger for a moment, and there was something about how she looked at me that completely took my fight. I could not hold on to it now that I was alone with her.

“I know you are not fucking him,” I said, quiet.

She turned in her chair, staring up at me, with her lip—bloodied, bruised.

Carefully, I clasped her chin. “I did not mean this,” I said, whispering.

She swallowed, staring up at me, breathtaking. “I know,” she said.

I leaned forward, hesitant, but when she did not move away, I kissed her—softer than I ever had—drawing my tongue over her wound. Even as it healed beneath my touch, guilt gnawed at my gut.

How would I ever apologize enough?

I felt that I had committed so many wrongs against her in just the last few days, I would never make up for them. I had failed to be compassionate when she had shifted for the first time; I had dismissed her worries and connection to her mother’s homeland; and I had not been able to control my court long enough to prevent her harm.