London, September 1887

When she finally opened her eyes again, she found herself warm and tucked beneath Damon's arm, a blanket drawn over her body, shielding her from the cool evening air. The world beyond the window had dimmed; night was approaching, but whether it was just before or just after supper, she could not tell. She still felt hazy from sleep, her body pleasantly languid.

"You're awake," Damon murmured, his voice soft as he felt her shift beside him. Until then, his attention had been drawn to the darkening countryside beyond the window.

"Where's Henry?" she asked, blinking sleepily.

"The servants arrived," he replied. "He went to give his directions, I believe. He should return soon."

"How long was I sleeping?"

"Nearly two hours."

She nodded, then slowly rose, mindful of the sticky warmth lingering between her thighs. Though the chamberpot was conveniently set within the commode chair, she found herself longing for the privacy of a proper water closet.

The moment she stepped from the bed, a chill enveloped her bare skin, making her shiver. Damon noticed instantly, his gaze drawn to her unclothed body.

She could already be with child, his child.

The thought sent a shiver down his spine, igniting an emotion he could not quite name.

Without a moment's hesitation, he stood, still nude himself, and moved to retrieve her wrapper, draping it over her shoulders before kneeling to slip her feet into warm slippers.

Sabrina smiled, half amused, half touched, watching as he performed the small, unexpected act of care.

"I am here to help you conceive," he said lightly, fastening the ties of her wrapper. "Not to have you catch a chill."

"Hopefully, it shall happen soon," she replied wistfully, though her gaze dropped to the floor, her fingers fidgeting with the fabric. "The baby, I mean."

A gentle touch beneath her chin urged her to lift her head, forcing her eyes to meet his once more.

"Your husband loves you more than I had ever imagined," Damon murmured. "It was beyond foolish of me to believe I could ever come between you. He is entirely submitted to your happiness, willing to go to mad lengths that even I—" He exhaled, shaking his head. "Even I know I could never match."

Sabrina stilled, her breath catching slightly as she watched a rare vulnerability flicker across his features.

He hesitated only a moment before continuing, his voice quieter now.

"I do not think I have ever truly loved anyone before you," he admitted. "Had I not kept you at arm's length, had I not built walls between us out of guilt whenever you tried to make our bond something more than physical, perhaps we would have had... a very different understanding today."

Her brows knitted together, and in one smooth motion, she pulled her chin from his grasp.

"You should not compare yourself to Henry," she said briskly. "The two of you are entirely different men, with different hearts, different minds. You think, feel, and love in vastly different ways."

Damon nodded, but he did not step back.

"Indeed," he conceded. "And yet, your husband has shown me what love should be. Where I once acted on obsession, purposely blind to the possible harm it could have caused, he has been nothing but steadfast in mending your marriage. That was my greatest failing, Sabrina—that my love was possessive, not selfless."

His lips pressed together briefly, as if struggling with the weight of his next words.

"If not for my ill obsession, I would not be counting the days until I would be made a widower," he confessed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "And now... now my love is spent on my children, the ones I will tell the truth to, one day. I do not know if they will ever forgive me. I do not know if, in their eyes, I will always be a villain."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

"But even if they hate me, I hope they will one day admit that I tried—that I fought for my redemption."

A long silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint crackle of the fire in the hearth. And then, with something fragile beneath his voice, he said,

"I only wish that you, too, might someday forgive me completely. Not merely with your words... but with your heart. Because while your lips say one thing, your eyes speak of something else entirely."

Sabrina closed her eyes briefly, drawing in a steady breath before reaching for the soft papers to cleanse herself.

"Damon, I believe your regrets," she began, her tone even, though not unkind. "And I know that changing oneself is an immensely difficult endeavor, one that I commend you for. But dwelling on the past will not aid you in becoming a better man, nor will it undo what has already been done."

She paused, her fingers smoothing over the delicate paper as she gathered her thoughts.

"Nevertheless," she continued, exhaling slowly, "as I told you at Westhill, I hold no resentment toward you. On the contrary—I have forgiven you." She turned her head slightly, her dark eyes catching his. "But forgiveness is not the same as forgetting. And I cannot ignore how many liberties you once took with my body and mind, nor how deeply you influenced me in ways that almost cost me my marriage."

Damon's lips parted as if he wished to speak, but she pressed on.

"No one has ever affected me as darkly as you once did. You saw my volatility and used it against me—turned my own words into weapons, albeit unwittingly. I see now that it was not merely lust or desire, but control, and even then a part of you knew it, but you let the farce go on until it was revealed by mere chance."

She took a measured breath before continuing, her voice firm but reflective.

"My marriage is unconventional, indeed. But where Henry has proven—again and again—that his resolve is stronger than my own, I made a choice. A vow, of my own volition. I will not engage in dalliances without his presence, not out of guilt, nor fear of betrayal, but because of the possibility of crossing paths with someone like you—the man you once were—manipulative and with a hidden agenda. I have known what it is to confuse the need for self-preservation for trust in the wrong people, and I have learned what it is to be used to see someone's ends met."

Damon flinched, though he did not avert his gaze.

"My husband is a rare man," she went on, softer now. "And I needed someone like him to help me grow into the woman I am today—a woman who understands her own weaknesses and how to keep from repeating the patterns that once hurt her."

She finished cleansing her hands first, then herself, aware of his eyes upon her the entire time.

Damon parted his lips again as though to defend himself, but then hesitated, watching as she stood and moved toward the nearby washbasin, dipping her hands into the cool water. He had tread the edge of a finely honed blade, yet still, he could not suppress the storm of emotions within him.

Concealing the truth had never granted him solace, had it?

And so, as she turned back to him, he asked, his voice low, almost fragile,

"Sabrina, yet despite it all, do you... do you harbour even a fraction of affection for me?"

She blinked, surprised by the question.

"Even if it is nothing more than platonic regard, I need to know," he pressed on, his fingers clenched into fists at his sides. "Good Lord in Heaven, I need to know this—you will bear my child, after all. Am I nothing to you beyond a means to an end? A man fulfilling your dream and your husband's?"

He exhaled, unsteady.

"I know I still have a long road ahead of myself and I do not seek what is not mine to have. But I need to believe that—once this is done—I will not be discarded like spoiled meat."

His entire body reflected the depth of his turmoil—shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes searching hers for any sign of reassurance.

Sabrina stepped forward until she was close enough to lay her palm over his heart.

"My husband always tells me to have faith," she murmured. "Perhaps you should, too."

Damon's brow furrowed.

"Faith?" he echoed. "What does the bloody faith have anything to do with me?"

She nodded. "Faith in your own strength. In the man you are striving to become, rather than the one you used to be. Do not place your salvation in my hands—it does not belong there. I may have helped you rise from the ashes, but the rest is up to you alone."

She swallowed, lifting her hand from his chest to cup his cheek instead.

"What we are doing here—creating life, bringing a new soul into this world—is not a mere transaction, it never could be. You were right—it will bind us, always." Her fingers skimmed his cheekbone, and her voice softened. "And such a bond comes with its own set of feelings. Perhaps not the ones you long for... but feelings, nonetheless."

Damon let out a slow, unsteady breath.

"I can only tell you this," she continued, her tone soft but firm. "You will never be cast aside. If it is your wish to see your child grow up, I will grant it, but never forget that he or she will bear the surname of Clarke."

His entire posture eased, his shoulders no longer rigid with doubt, even his golden eyes reflected his relief. He covered her hand with his own, closing his fingers around it as a smile touched his lips. Damon sniffed once, composing himself before he spoke again.

"Thank you, Sabrina," he whispered. His voice held a sincerity she had rarely heard from him.

"I... I have been happier since becoming sober than I ever thought possible," he admitted, his thumb lightly brushing over her knuckles. "You could hardly imagine—perhaps the happiest I have been in a decade."

A small crack appeared in Sabrina's emotional armour, and Damon sensed it like a basset hound catching the scent of wounded prey deep within the forest. The realisation was so potent it sent a chill down his spine, something primal stirring within him at the thought that, perhaps, beneath all of her carefully crafted words and restrained gestures, there was something more—a feeling not yet named, an attachment perhaps stubbornly unacknowledged.

He closed his eyes firmly, forcing himself to steady the thoughts threatening to take hold of his composure. He could not afford this indulgence. The pitch black maw of his destructive desires had shown its sharp teeth, threatening to gnaw the safety net he'd spent years constructing into useless pieces.

No, no. I cannot and won't act upon this notion—if there is affection budding within Sabrina, she must realise it herself and in her own time, he thought, clenching his jaw in restraint.

"Is something amiss?" she asked, extricating her hand from his hold, though feeling as if his touch had left an imprint that she could not quite shake.

She flexed her fingers instinctively, as if to dispel the sensation, and yet, for a fleeting moment, she found herself unsettled by her own impulse to offer him comfort so freely.

Has it always been this way between us, or is it our recent arrangement that makes me so prone to comfort him? Sabrina pondered. Is it our shared history that draws me to him in moments like these, or is it something far simpler?

Or is it the reality that Damon, and not Henry, would be the sire of my children?

Damon opened his eyes and, with effort, summoned a playful smirk. "Nothing, darling. I only missed your touch more than I care to admit."

Upon these words, Sabrina let the intrusive thoughts slip away into oblivion.

The doors opened minutes later, and yet Henry lingered at the threshold for a moment, observing the pair seated in bed, engaged in what appeared to be a lively conversation. His brow lifted slightly, both in curiosity and mild surprise, as he had braced himself for an entirely different scene. He had expected to walk in on Damon using every opportunity to claim his wife again, ever eager to indulge in the arrangement that was sure to bring him immense relief after his self-imposed celibacy.

But instead, he found something far more intriguing.

Even this man, once a lost cause, could apparently exercise restraint.

Relief settled in Henry's chest—not once, but twice over. First, for the fact that Damon had, indeed, grown into someone capable of governing his impulses, and second, for the realisation that their precarious arrangement, thus far, was working. Unorthodox as it was, it was also a fragile pact, he knew, and it would have to continue to hold for the rest of the two months they had agreed upon.

After all, such an undertaking demanded not only faith but patience, trust, and an unshakeable resolve from all three of them.

And hopefully, it would be enough.

Their days from then on were marked by intimacy—not solely for the purpose of making Sabrina with child but for the indulgence of pleasure itself. Though the act held an underlying purpose, it was never done in a purely mechanical manner. No—both men took their time, ensuring that their nymph found at least one sweet release each time they joined her in bed. There were days when Henry had his wife purely to himself, and others when Damon was the one to indulge Sabrina with his intimate prowess.

Beyond the bedroom, they spent as much time as possible outdoors, savouring the last of the fine weather. But when the rains came, turning the country into a vast and muddy moor, they remained mostly indoors. Henry and Damon managed put aside their old animosities, often engaging in discussions that made Sabrina smile inwardly as she sat reading or working on her book, and occasionally joining their conversations. She was ever mindful of how she divided her attention between them, knowing full well that their masculine pride could easily turn restless if either felt neglected.

Per the physician's advice, they refrained from smoking and drinking, though chess and charades could only entertain them for so long. Sabrina knew Henry missed his quiet moments of respite with a cigar and scotch, just as Damon, naturally, missed his children. And yet, both men remained steadfast in their promise.

Then, at the end of the month, the inevitable came.

When Sabrina received her flowers, it took every ounce of her composure not to let the emotions consume her wholly. That familiar, wretched mix of helplessness, dread, and frustration threatened to drag her under—a cruel reminder that some dreams, no matter how fervently wished for, may have been destined to remain just that: intangible phantasms.

She wavered. And still, they remained.

"Have faith," Henry whispered into her ear, his hand a soothing presence against her back as she kept her eyes shut, willing herself to find that fine balance between hope and ruthless reality.

It became harder and harder as the fear deepened, though she still held her head and her hopes high.

Damon, seated at her other side, took her hand in silent support, his thumb tracing absentminded circles along the back of her skin. No words were needed; Henry had already spoken the ones that mattered.

In the days that followed, they agreed it was time to return to their respective homes, resuming their arrangement only when opportunity allowed. With Damon employing only a scarce number of servants, their clandestine attempts continued at his newly built house or, when necessary, at a discreet inn in Cranbourne, where they shrouded their true names in anonymity.

Despite Sabrina's own inner resilience, the second month soon became a test of endurance for all three. Perhaps it was intuition, or perhaps it was simply the toll of being plowed in every carnal position imaginable, but she sensed the strain growing heavier—even if Henry and Damon carried out their task as though it were a divine oath sworn to their Goddess. For her, all she had to do was part her thighs, but for them, there were other obligations, other responsibilities beyond filling her cunny with their seed.

"I want to fulfil every wish of yours, I truly do," Damon murmured after one such encounter, his hand tracing the curve of her hip.

Sabrina inhaled deeply. "I will understand if you can't continue this arrangement any longer."

He shook his head. "That wasn't a lament. More of a reminder."

Slowly, she pushed herself up in bed, allowing Damon to bask in the sight of her bare breasts. "If... if I simply cannot conceive, then..." she exhaled, her voice unsteady, "...there's nothing else to be done. It would be something to—come to terms with."

The words felt as if she swallowed a thousand shards of glass in her throat, yet Damon was there, his touch gentle as he cupped her face.

"I know this isn't what you want to hear," he murmured, "but listen to me—child or not, you have so much to live for. You've helped so many people, including my being a worthless scoundrel. And more than anything, you are the love of someone's life."

Sabrina opened her mouth to speak, but he silenced her with the light press of his thumb against her lips.

"One day," he continued, "you'll look back on this time with a sense of nostalgia. You may even chuckle at the thought of who you once were and the worries that consumed you. I promise you that."

She inhaled sharply but did not push against his words. Damon allowed himself to smile, soft and sincere.

To her, this may have been nothing more than a necessary endeavour—with the added benefit of pleasure.

But to him, it had become something more. A cherished time spent with the woman he had come to love, but also the peace that he would never truly have with her, for his love would remain unrequited.