I had barely taken a few steps back from the window before he was inside.
The moment his boots hit the floor, his hand found me once more. His fingers curling at the side of my neck, careful, as he pulled me into him, his lips claiming mine with a force that stole the breath out of my lungs.
I braced my hands against his chest, feeling the steady strength beneath my palm despite the pain flaring at the back of my shoulder as he guided us further into my room. Slow, but unyielding, until we stood at its center.
Only then did he pulled back.
His gaze lingering on me for a moment longer before it shifted, those dark eyes sweeping over the room, taking in every detail of my childhood space with quiet scrutiny.
His hands settled at my waist, grounding and possessive in a way that felt less like ownership and more like certainty.
"So," he said at last, his voice low, thoughtful. "This is where you sleep."
His gaze flicked back to mine, something unreadable passing through it. "In a space like this." A brief pause. "Even my servants were afforded more."
I let out a soft huff, folding my arms loosely. "You lived in a completely different time."
I cleared my throat, gesturing vaguely around us. "Land is expensive now. Cost of living, inflation—it's...complicated."
He studied me for a moment, as if weighing something beyond my words.
Then he nodded once.
"All the more reason," he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing absently against my side, "that you should come with me."
"I've thought about it, Marcus," I murmured, easing out of his hold.
His hand lingered where I'd left it for a second, suspended, as if uncertain what to do without me, before it dropped to his side.
I turned away, unable to face him when I said it. "I don't think I can follow you."
Silence settled between us. Tight and heavy.
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I can't leave my family," I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded. "I can't leave my life here."
"They are not your true parents."
I heard him step closer.
But I didn't move. My gaze fixed instead on the old marking guide still clipped above my desk from my university days. Something small, ordinary, mine.
"Maybe not," I said quietly. Then, gathering what little resolve I had, I turned only to find him already there, closing the space between us. "But they're the only family I've ever known. This is the only life I've ever lived. I can't just...abandon it."
My throat tightened. "And this—this idea of yours...it's not simple. I don't even understand your world, Marcus. Not the way I understand this one."
His expression didn't soften. If anything, it grew more resolute.
"I have already taken steps to remedy that," he said.
Something in my tone made my stomach twist.
"I spoke with Alan. And Philippa." A brief pause. "They found your records. Of your origin."
My breath caught.
"You were not meant for this time, Elena," he continued, his voice quieter now, but no less certain. "You were born in mine."
The room seemed to tilt.
"They found your family," he said. "Your true parents."
A beat.
"They were killed," he finished, his jaw tightening, "before you were ever given the life that was yours by right."
"No."
The word left me in a breath, barely there.
I shook my head, once, then again, harder this time as I could forget what he had just said.
"No, that's—" My voice broke. "That's not—no."
Tears blurred my vision before I even realized they had fallen. My chest tightened, something sharp and suffocating pressing in as I took a few steps back, my shoulder hitting against the wall. But I hadn't really even noticed the pain flaring across my back.
"This isn't real," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "That's not my life. That's not—"
"Elena."
His voice was steady. Too steady.
I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to see him. Not wanting to hear him. Because there was no way—
But his hands held my sides, gently grounding me in this reality.
He slipped one hand around my waist, the other at my arm, holding me in place with a gentleness that only made it worse.
"Let me go," I said, shaking now, my breath uneven. "Marcus please, let me—"
"They were betrayed."
His words cut through everything.
I stilled.
His grip didn't tighten, but it didn't loosen either.
"Your true family," he continued, quieter now, his gaze fixed on me with an intensity that didn't waver. "They were not meant to die as they did. It was treachery. A failure of loyalty."
I stared at him, tears slipping freely now, my head still shaking with disbelief.
"You don't know that," I choked. "You can't possibly—"
"I do."
There was no hesitation. No doubt.
Only certainty.
"If that betrayal had not occurred..." His voice softened, not with uncertainty but with something else, something almost distant. "Our paths would have crossed as they were always meant to."
My breath hitched.
He stepped closer, closing what little space remained, his hand lifting, brushing the tears from my cheek. "You would not be here," he said, as if stating something inevitable. "Not like this."
His thumb lingering against my skin. "You would have been mine."
The words should have felt possessive.
But instead, they landed like something fated. Unyielding.
"I would have taken you as my wife," he went on, his voice lowering, his gaze drifting not far away from me, but through me, as though he were seeing something else entirely. "Given you the life that was yours by right, as a Praetor's wife."
My chest ached.
"You would have borne my children by now," he said softly, like it was a memory. Like it had already happened.
A tear slipped past my lips as I let out a broken breath, my hands pushing weakly against his chest.
"Stop," I whispered. "Please...stop."
But he didn't.
Not because he was cruel.
But because to him, this wasn't fantasy. It was the truth. Yet another thing that had been stolen from him, and something he believed could still be restored.
"If you could only see it—" he began.
"Stop it!"
The words tore out of me before I could think, as I shoved against his chest. Harder than I meant to, desperate.
He staggered back a step, more out of surprise, as pain exploded through my side.
A sharp, blinding jolt knocking the breath from my lungs.
I gasped, doubling over instantly, my hands flying to my wound as my knees threatened to give. "Damn it—" I choked, the room tilting.
"Elena."
He was in front of me again in an instant, hands catching me before I could collapse completely. Careful this time. Precise.
"Do not move," he said, low and controlled, though I could hear the strain beneath it.
"I told you to stop," I managed, breath uneven, my forehead nearly brushing his chest as I struggled to steady myself. "You don't get to just...decide things for me. You don't get to rewrite my life like that."
His grip tightened slightly. Not in anger, but in restraint.
"I am not rewriting it," he said. "I am telling you what could be. What still could be."
"I don't want it!" My voice cracked, weaker now, but no less fierce. "I don't want a life I don't remember. I don't want—" I sucked in a shaky breath, my body still trembling from the pain. "—to belong to something I never chose."
Silence.