Fear took over her face. A look far too similar to the one she had given Thomas when she had become so certain she would die on Crimson Peak. Just as all the others had. And while they both were most certainly unhappy at the prison the crumbled mansion had become at his sister's hand, he thought the worry of her demise had become one he had quelled. At least for the moment. What could make her eyes widen and lip quiver when he entered her chambers? Her body was sheened in sweat, kneeling next to the wastebasket that kept her far from the warm bed on such a cold morning. He shouldn't close the door, he knows better. He is all too familiar with how quickly she could loosen Lucille's shackles. But he does, whatever it is that has made her look as if she wished to simply disappear was not something meant for loneliness. Another whisper for them to share in dark moments.

The smell came next, the familiar smell of sick when there was nothing in one's stomach to heave up. He knows, somewhere deep in his own gut he knows what's happening, but he can't bring himself to truly think it. Not yet.

"Are you alright, my love?" he asks, kneeling down beside her, pressing the inside of his wrist to her forehead, "You're not warm," it must be poison.

Lucille had somehow discovered their hidden dalliances and had done what she bid necessary. As she always had. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her breath shaking as she shook her head, "I'm not ill, darling," the way she says it, so soft and full of love, still sends shivers across his flesh, "But, you know that and so Lucille must have begun to poison me, yes?"

He hates that, hates how quickly the mask goes up. If he were another man, if they lived another life, there would be no need for masks, "I will not let you die," he never plans to say the words, if he were truthful he hadn't even remembered thinking them.

As quick as her shield had come up it falls, as does she, right into his arms. He holds no regret. He means those words and he will do what he is able to keep them the truth. He holds her tight, nose buried in the crown of her head. She smells of burnt pine and rose, it felt like a lifetime ago she had been close enough to breath in. She is sweeter than he remembers and he vows never to forget again.

"You may regret those words," she sniffles as he climbs to his feet, gently pulling her with him, she has become almost frail in her time with them, perhaps soon she would be a wisp and disappear in the wind.

Thomas chose not to think of that either, "Tell me what's wrong," his eyes intent on hers, her cheek in the palm of his hand.

She wants to melt into him, into this moment, forget everything else. Just as they had too few times before . Maybe…

"I'm pregnant," there was no beating around the bush, no running from it. It was happening, here, now. Whether they liked it or not.

Joy, pure joy fills him at the words. Then his heart falls as hers must have as well, all happiness stolen in an instant. Lucille would never let them have a child, even if his wife was given the mercy of her life, there would be no welcoming the gift of their child's. It would be taken from them, one way or another. She knows this, just as he does. He no longer wonders at her fear, for it is one more thing they share.

"What can you do?" for the first time the sheen of tears in her eyes are sadness. She has given up. Why shouldn't she?

He kisses her hard, pulling her tight against as if somehow he could pull her into himself. If only to protect her from Lucille's wrath. It would not be enough. Nothing would be enough, nothing but… She moans, gripping his hair tightly with one hand, his collar the other. He can feel the life growing inside her move against him, it's too early, he knows that. But he also knows what he felt.

"I will do what I must."

It is quick and painless, she deserves that. He expects to feel more pain, anguish, even just a semblance of guilt. He does not. When her breath hitches, shudders, then stops. When the light left her eyes so filled with betrayal. Surely when he buried her, something that took hours, the cold not helping his task, he'd expected to feel something horrid. But nothing came, just the sudden feeling of freedom. The dirt moves back into the hole much quicker than he had expected. Just like that she was gone and no one but him and his wife would know.

The thought of her, glowing , swollen with their child hastened his steps. Changing his blouse and trousers, as well as cleaning the dirt from his skin. The red puddle has started to dry and grow cakey on the floor with the cold winter's evening. A task for another day or perhaps he would lock the room away altogether. It didn't matter, not really, it seemed unlikely they would even stay there. Raising children in a glorified shack on a ghost ridden mountainside would not do, not if he would be a better parent than his own had been.

"Thomas," her voice soft, meant not to frighten him.

It does the opposite, "Would you like to go home, my love?" turning to look at her. Pale, worried, and hauntingly beautiful, "Away from here," stepping to her quickly, picking her up around the waist, "Your estate would be a wonderful place to raise the children."

"Now it's children?" raising her brows, carting her fingers through his home, "Yes, darling, I would like that very much indeed"

Love had made monsters of them all. But never again.