He watched her for a moment, his gaze crawling over her. She hunched her back, curled in on herself. She would not tell him about the girl in the water, the scarlet ribbons she held to her stomach.

“Are we going to have problems?” he asked. “Like before?”

“No,” she said, too quickly, too sure.

She tried not to flinch when he moved from the sink and crossed the dark kitchen to where she sat. She tried, but she failed. He came to her side, turned her to face him. Rolling up her sleeve, he examined her skin. He ran his thumb along the tracks her fingernails had left there.

“Have you been hurting yourself again?”

“No,” she said, too quickly, too sure.

“How did you get these scratches?”

“When I fell.”

He rolled the sleeve up further, revealing the mirrored crescents of the teeth marks.

“Jesus, love,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said, the shame of it threatening to topple her from the stool.

“Look at me.”

When she didn’t, he placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her head back.

“I’m only trying to look after you,” he said, his voice soft now, like his mouth was filled with sugar. “I don’t want you to hurt yourself. I don’t want to come home and find you unconscious on the floor. You promise me you won’t do that again.”

She dropped her gaze, shook her head.

“Say it.”

“I promise,” she said.

He took her in his arms, and she remembered that she loved him. God help her, she loved him. That needful thought came to her as a forgotten sorrow, a torment long buried and now returned. She still loved him, and it shamed her more than the bite on her arm.

“Don’t do that to me again,” he said. “This isn’t Bath. It’s not like England. This is such a small place. Everyone knows everything. There’s no secrets. You try that here, the whole country finds out. Think of my family.”

“I won’t do it again,” she said, unsure if she believed herself. “I promise.”

He held her tight, his arms strong, pressing hers into her sides, binding, enveloping her until she couldn’t see or hear anything but him, no scent in the world but his.

“I know you won’t,” he said. “And you’ve no call to go wandering off. I can’t be going to work and worrying about you, can I? All you have to do is stay here.”

She wanted to tell him something, but she couldn’t. It would wound him. Anger him. But it would fester if she didn’t say it now.

“I don’t want to live here,” she said.

“What?”

His arms loosened enough to allow her to turn her head.

“I don’t want to live here,” she said again. “Not in this house.”

“What are you talking about?”