She was not his support.

She was part of him.

He had fallen in love with her beauty and strength, and now the rapture of her body.

But it was simply that he loved her.

He had for some time.

And now, with her words, he knew he would never stop.

“What?” she whispered, gazing up at him.

One could argue, after the first time they made love, declaring his feelings as they were right then was the perfect time to do so.

But True would argue that it was not.

He wanted to share this with her when there was nothing to question the pure sentiment behind it. Not caught up in the afterglow of a climax. Not having it mistaken for gratitude for her attention or support in times of mourning, in times of trouble.

He wanted to look over a breakfast table, into her eyes, and just say it, so she knew, apropos of nothing—and everything—that it was true.

“My husband…what?” she prompted.

“That went quickly, and I was not as gentle as I would have wished to be. Are you sensitive?” he queried.

“Are you asking if I wish you to ravish me again?” she queried in return.

He shot her another grin, wondering who it was that was ravished, for he felt that it was he.

He had no complaint about that either.

She lifted her head and kissed the curve on his lips before dropping back down and answering, “I am delightfully sensitive, and if we do not make love again, my king, it would be very vexing.”

He rolled off her, onto his back, taking her with him so she was atop.

“I would not wish to vex you,” her murmured, eyes to her mouth.

“Then don’t,” she whispered, head descending.

She kissed him.

He returned his wife’s kiss.

Then they set about not making her vexed as True again let himself be ravished.

And he returned the favor.

It was the next morning.

They were both in dressing gowns, at their breakfast laid out in their sitting room.

Farah was spreading marmalade on a triangle of toast.

True was watching her.

Her hair was tousled, a glorious mane adorning her shoulders.

Her face was relaxed, and for the first time since he knew her, carefree.

He had, at times, been able to make her happy.

He had never, not once, seen her look carefree.

“Farah,” he called, and she lifted her gaze from her toast to his eyes. “I love you, my darling.”

She grew still as a statue, her eyes glued to his.

“Finish breakfast, sweetling,” he urged, his lips curved. “As ever, we have a busy day.”

She did not move.

True reached for his own triangle of toast from the caddy.

“True.”

He looked to her just in time to see one lone tear trace down her cheek.

She no longer looked carefree.

Her eyes were shining with gratitude, happiness and…