Sarah was on the front steps before the horses had even fully stopped, her robe thrown on over her nightclothes, the cold clearly forgotten the moment someone had told her riders were coming up the road.
"You're all in one piece," she said, pulling Henry into a hug before he'd finished dismounting. "That's all I asked for. One piece."
"Mostly one piece," Howard said, and got an elbow for it.
Arnold gave his wife the barest nod, which for him counted as a full report, and started issuing quiet instructions to the stablehands about the horses. Adar lingered a moment at the edge of the courtyard, his eyes finding Henry once more before he caught himself doing it and looked away.
"Vice Captain," Arnold said. "My thanks. You're dismissed to your own quarters."
"Baron." Adar inclined his head, and to Henry, almost too quiet to catch, "Get some rest." Something in the way he said it suggested he meant more than the shoulder.
Henry watched him go, then let Sarah steer him inside toward warmth and food he barely tasted, answering her questions with the same worn cover story he'd been carrying since his leave began. It came easier now. That bothered him less than it used to.
He found Mia an hour later, in the narrow hallway outside the kitchens, a stack of folded linens in her arms and her whole face going through three expressions at once when she saw him.
"You're back early," she said. "I thought you weren't due until tomorrow, at least."
"Change of plans." He took the linens out of her arms without asking and set them on the nearest table, which left her with nothing to hold on to but him.
She noticed the fading bruise first, a mottled edge of it showing past his collar, and her hand went there before either of them decided it should. "What happened?"
"Nothing that didn't heal."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I've got tonight." He caught her hand where it rested against him and held it there instead of letting her pull it back. "I don't want to talk about the border. I want to talk about you. I've barely thought about anything else the last two days."
Color came up in her face, quick and unguarded. "Henry."
"I mean it." He said it plainly, without the deflection he usually wrapped around things that mattered too much to risk. "I keep almost dying out there, and every time, the thing I can't stand losing is this. Is you. I'm not going anywhere, Mia. Not on purpose, and not without a fight."
She searched his face like she was checking for the joke and couldn't find one. "You've never said it like that before."
"I've never meant it this plainly before."
The kiss that followed wasn't careful, wasn't the soft, testing thing they'd shared before. Her hands found the front of his shirt and held on like she intended to keep him there by force if she had to, and he kissed her back with everything he'd been rationing out in small, safe amounts for months, finally letting the rest of it through.
Neither of them said anything else on the way to his room.
Henry's mouth was soft against hers, a slow, deliberate pressure that Mia melted into without hesitation. Her back pressed into the mattress of his bed, the one she'd made up a hundred times before, never like this.
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb tracing the line of her cheekbone while her fingers twisted into the front of his shirt. They'd been kissing for what felt like an hour, the kind of kissing that started nervous and turned into something hungrier, more certain.
Mia pulled back just enough to breathe, her forehead resting against his. "Henry."
"Yeah?" His voice was rough, quiet. The lamp on the nightstand threw warm light across the side of his face, catching the slight furrow between his brows.
"I'm sure," she said before he could ask. Because she knew he would. He always did.
He searched her eyes anyway, his thumb still stroking her jaw. "You tell me if anything feels wrong. Anything at all."
"I will." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "But it won't."
That was the truth she'd settled into weeks ago, maybe longer. The fear of him disappearing to duty, to some version of his life that didn't include her, had gnawed at her for months.
Then he'd come home and stood in front of her and said, plain as anything, that she was what he couldn't stand losing. That he wasn't going anywhere on purpose. The words had unlocked something in her chest, and tonight she wanted him to have all of her.
He shifted, easing her deeper into the pillows, and she felt the weight of him settle between her thighs. Still clothed, both of them, but the heat of him through his trousers made her breath catch. He kissed her throat, open-mouthed and slow, and her hands slid under his shirt, nails dragging lightly down his back. He shuddered.
"Been thinking about this," he murmured against her collarbone.
"Me too."
He lifted his head, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth. "Yeah? What'd you think about?"
Mia felt heat flood her cheeks but didn't look away. "You. Like this. On top of me."
His smile faded into something more serious, more intent. He sat back on his heels and pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside. She'd seen him without a shirt before laundry days, hot afternoons in the courtyard, but never like this, never with the knowledge that she was allowed to touch.
She sat up enough to pull her own dress over her head, and then her slip, and then there was just her plain cotton underwear and the way his eyes dragged over her like she was something precious.
"Fuck, Mia." He said it reverently, not crudely.
She reached for the waistband of his trousers, fingers fumbling with the button. He helped her, shoving them down along with his boxers, and then he was bare, and she was staring. His dick was hard, curving up toward his stomach, and she felt a spike of nervousness that must have shown on her face.
"Hey." He leaned down, kissing her forehead. "We go slow. I've got you."
She nodded, and he helped her out of her underwear, his knuckles brushing her hips, her thighs. Then he was over her again, skin to skin, and the sensation of his weight, his warmth, his chest hair against her nipples made her gasp. He kissed her deep while his hand slid between them, fingers finding her pussy. She had been wet since the first kiss, and the sound she made when he touched her there was half moan, half whimper.
"That feel good?" he asked, rubbing slow circles.
"Yes. Don't stop."
He didn't. He stroked her until her hips were lifting into his hand, until she was panting against his mouth and her thighs were shaking. She'd touched herself before, plenty of times, but his fingers were thicker, rougher, and the way he watched her face while he did it made everything tighter, hotter. She was close to coming when he eased a single finger inside her, just barely, testing.
"Okay?" he whispered.
"More."
He pushed deeper, and the stretch was strange but good, her body adjusting around him. He worked her slowly, one finger then two, his thumb still circling her clit, and when she came it was with a sharp cry and her nails digging into his shoulders.
He kissed her through it, murmuring things she barely heard. When she opened her eyes, he was looking at her with an expression that made her chest ache.
"I want you inside me," she said.
"You're sure?"
"Henry. Please."
He positioned himself between her legs, the head of his dick pressing against her entrance. She was slick and open from his fingers, but he still went slow, pushing in inch by inch, pausing whenever she tensed. There was a burn, a pressure that bordered on too much, and then he was fully seated, and she felt impossibly full.
"Fuck," he breathed, dropping his forehead to hers. "You feel incredible."
She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him deeper. "Move. Please."
He did. Missionary, slow and steady, his hips rolling in a rhythm that let her feel every inch of him dragging inside her. The initial discomfort faded into something deeper, a building pleasure that radiated from her core outward. He kept his weight on his forearms, his face above hers, and she watched the strain in his jaw, the way his eyes fluttered half-shut.
"Mia." Her name was a groan.
She reached up and pulled his mouth to hers, kissing him messy and desperate as his thrusts grew faster, less controlled. Her second orgasm built differently than the first—slower, deeper, coiling low in her belly until it snapped and she was clenching around him, crying out into his mouth as he finished with her....
Morning arrived gray and quiet, sunlight pushing thin through the curtains, and for a long stretch Henry simply lay there with Mia's head on his chest and let himself feel, fully and without guarding any of it, exactly how much he loved this ordinary version of being alive.
It didn't last.
A sharp knock hit the front door of the castle, three raps, official in a way no estate visitor ever knocked. Henry was dressed and moving before the second set of knocks landed, some old instinct dragging him fully awake in half a breath.
"Henry?" Mia sat up, pulling the blanket to her chest, alarm already sharpening her voice. "What is it?"
"I don't know." He did know, or feared he did, the shape of it settling cold in his stomach even before he reached the window.
A lone figure stood at the castle's door. Tall, lean, dressed like a traveling merchant rather than a soldier, brown hair catching the early light. Sir Red never looked like what he was, and that was exactly what made him unmistakable to anyone who'd spent two months learning to see past it.
By the time Henry made it downstairs, Sarah had already answered the door, and the whole household seemed to have gathered in the entry hall out of pure instinct, drawn by the wrongness of a stranger at the estate this early. Arnold stood a few steps back, arms crossed, his expression giving away nothing and noticing everything.
"Can I help you?" Sarah asked, polite and faintly wary.
Sir Red's easy smile didn't waver, though his eyes found Henry over her shoulder immediately. "Morning, ma'am. Sorry for the hour. I'm here about your son's assignment." He let the word sit there, vague enough to mean nothing to her and everything to Henry. "Training's calling him back a little sooner than planned."
"He's on leave," Sarah said.
"Was," Red said, gentle about it in a way that somehow made it worse. "Leadership needs him back."
Henry crossed the room before his mother could ask the question forming behind her eyes. "I'll get my things."
Arnold's gaze cut to him, sharp and knowing, the same look he'd worn back at the Garrison when Adar had asked what he shouldn't have. He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Sir Red's smile finally reached his eyes once Henry was close enough for a quieter word. "You're late, you know."
"I know."
"We'll talk about how late on the way." Sir Red's tone stayed easy, but somewhere deep underneath it wasn't. "Pack fast, kid. We've got ground to cover before anyone starts asking harder questions than your mother did."
Henry looked back once, at Sarah's worried face, at his father's unreadable one, and at the stairway Mia hadn't come down, and understood exactly how short his time had just become.