So I received a review this week informing me that a reviewer was annoyed because updates for this story were taking too long, and that if I didn't basically bump up my updating schedule, he/she would stop reading this story. Unfortunately, that reviewer was a "Guest", and because of that, I was not given the option of responding to them privately. But I would like to address this now. Feel free to skip ahead if this doesn't apply to you, those of you who patiently await updates and send encouraging notes.

Dear reviewer: I am a wife, mother and full-time teacher. I leave my house every day for work at 7:00 am, and most days do not get home until after 4:30 pm. I then transport my children to basketball, ballet, swimming and acro-dance, chess club and technology club. I do the dishes. I cook the meals. If I don't take care of laundry, it piles up to the point of being ridiculous. I like to spend time with my husband and children, as well, playing the occasional game, helping them with homework and engaging them in conversation. I direct the children's choir at my church and clean bathtubs at my house. I have parents who live close by, dear friends I enjoy trying to meet for coffee when time affords me this pleasure. I try to walk for my heath. This is my life. These are my priorities.

Writing is my hobby. It cannot come before what truly matters in my life. If you cannot accept that facet of who this writer is, then I suggest you stick to completed fics or find a writer who has more time to update than I do. If you decide to drop this story, that is your right. But why tell me? Why attempt to badger those of us who write into moving faster when some nights I don't even sit down until almost 9:00 pm? Messages such as yours do the opposite of what you intend. I was working on this chapter when I received an alert to your review. I shut the laptop and went to read a book after I read it. That's what notes like yours do to me. They make me want to throw up my hands and say, "Forget it."

Fortunately, not all readers respond in such a manner. They are the ones who motivate me to keep going.

Fanfic writers do not get paid to write. I wish I could write for a living-and a I hope to do so one day. But as of now, that is not my reality. I love posting updates. I love interacting with my readers. I love hearing what you have to say about what I have written. But understand-trying to pressure me to write faster just won't work. My life is what it is, and I am profoundly thankful for it. And it won't be changing any time soon.

To all of you who take the time to read, review and understand what it is like to juggle, I hope this chapter was worth the wait. Forgive the rant. To my American readers, may your Thanksgiving be abundant and blessed. To miscreant rose, KP, Cls2011 and thefoodofloveismusic, your continual support of this story means more than you know.

And to all of you reading this intro-thank you for being her today. :) I hope you enjoy!


Shit. Just shit.

Mary's heart hammers in her ears as blood pulses against her temples in a repetitious tattoo. Freda—the infamous Freda is standing just in front of her, claiming wifely rights over the man who now shares her bed and kisses her senseless.

"Are you going to answer or just keep staring at me like a mindless idiot?"

Freda's question knocks Mary out of her stupor with a thud, and she narrows her eyes into lasers, wishing she could split the other woman into.

"Are you planning on leaving as I've asked or to continue to invade my privacy like a bitch with an over-sized sense of entitlement?"

A smooth laugh sounding somewhat rehearsed plays back to her, its owner taking two steps in her direction without one iota of remorse.

"My sense of entitlement fits me perfectly," Freda returns, looking Mary over as if she is a date up for auction. "As your overly-zealous defensiveness does you."

The urge to smack Charles's ex-wife is nearly overpowering, making Mary's limbs quiver with an uncomfortable itch to actually do the woman physical harm.

"That's it," Mary snaps back, hobbling forward until she towers over her unwanted guest, keeping her insides together as best she can. "Get out."

She expects more of a reaction, a flinch, a gasp, but there is nothing staring back at her other than minor amusement.

"Not until I've seen my husband," Freda hums, turning her back on Mary and sauntering over to her sofa. "Do you have him locked in the bedroom, tied to the bedpost, perhaps?"

"It's none of your business if I have him in a collar and on a leash," Mary bites back. "And he's your ex-husband, which takes away any supposed right you have to barge into his life and my flat."

"Nearly ex-husband," Freda purrs, taking a seat and inciting Mary's ire even further. "Or did he neglect to tell you that our divorce is not yet final?"

Her pulse speeds uncomfortably, her palms becoming a sweaty mess.

"You're engaged to another man," Mary retorts, keeping her voice steadier than she feels. "That's final enough for me."

"A minor technicality," Freda sighs, waving at Mary dismissively. "Which is why I'm here and why I need to see Charles. We've made a few changes to our last settlement agreement, changes he'll want to see before everything becomes finalized next week."

Next week. Shit, why hadn't she realized his divorce was not yet final? Has he mentioned this before, or has he kept it from her deliberately for reasons she can't fathom? Or had she simply assumed it was final because she wished it to be so?

"Who's we?" Mary questions as she made her way closer to her couch, her emotions as unsteady as her legs.

"Elliot and I," Freda smiled, the gesture reminding Mary uncannily of a bad-tempered barracuda. "They simply reflect Charles's recent change of circumstances, you see. He's not all that forthright when it comes to owning up to his current earnings."

Her skin feels oddly hot, as if her blood is overheating at the pace of a frightened hare.

"You're trying to take more of his money?"

The question bursts from her mouth before she can stop it, and she ignores the growing ache in her knee, determined to remain standing as long as Freda remains in her flat.

"That's the nature of divorce, my dear," Freda muses. "What makes it interesting rather than a series of dull negotiations designed to end what should never have existed in the first place." She pauses, her eyes raking Mary up and down, making her feel as if someone has just brushed her fur in the wrong direction. "Learn that lesson now and it will do you a world of good."

"Learn that lesson and I'll no longer be fit to be human."

Something dangerous flashes back at her from dark, hooded eyes, something venomous and bitter coiling up tighter bit by bit.

"Be careful what you say," Freda warns, a shade of menace filling the room. "I don't care for sermons—I never have. And you never know what you're capable of until it comes right down to it."

"That's a cop-out if I've ever heard one," Mary retorts, shifting her weight in an attempt to quell the dull throb encircling her knee.

"Just the truth," Freda states. "The cold, hard truth that no one wants to admit. No matter how noble people pretend to be, the bare bones of humanity burn down to nothing more than money, position and sex. It's always been that way, and it always will be."

"A sentiment fit for a Christmas card," Mary muses, unwilling to break the other woman's stare.

"Ah, Christmas," Freda grins. "If ever a holiday proved my point."

"I'd like you to leave," Mary interjects, indicating the door. "Immediately." Freda stares back at her, licking her lips in a manner that makes her feel as if she needs another shower.

"My, my," the other woman oozes. "He's gotten to you, hasn't he?"

The question hits her soundly, right where he does get to her, squarely in the middle of her chest.

"I refuse to discuss my relationship with Charles with you," Mary returns evenly, her palms clenching and unclenching upon the pads of her crutches. Her response makes the other woman laugh, a brittle, throaty sound that somehow fits Cinderella's stepmother on a bad day.

"So there is a relationship," Freda states, arching her brows. "He's done a good job of keeping you hidden, I must say, but intelligence is not something Charles has ever lacked. Not that he was lacking in bed, either."

A roaring sound invades her ears, her face overheating uncomfortably.

"God, the things that man can do with his tongue," Freda continues, standing with an assumed air of authority. "I always thought he was rather gifted in that area, not to mention enthusiastic."

The pounding in her knee is now shooting up her thighs.

"Of course, you know that, don't you?" Freda asks pointedly, stepping into Mary's personal space. "Just how long has he been warming your sheets?"

"Get out of my flat," Mary instructs though clenched teeth and jaw, her need to sit down rocking her body uncomfortably.

"Obviously long enough that he's wormed his way in," Freda pushes uncomfortably, the left side of her upper lip twitching ever so slightly. "He does that, you know. Looks at you with those soulful, brown eyes, spins some pretty words around you until your skin tingles, fucks you out of your mind, and then—poof! It's over. He's won you over and makes you do something idiotic like agreeing to marry him."

Her stomach clenches in a complex knot as bile begins to push its way up her throat, her leg threatening to spasm out from under her.

"Leave now," Mary restates, a sheen of sweat pilling uncomfortably across her upper lip. "I'm done asking."

"But it doesn't last, you know," Freda continues, brushing away Mary's insistence as if it were of no more consequence than a pesky gnat. "The euphoria, the mind-altering sex, the belief that everything you want is finally coming to you. No. In the end, he proves to be nothing but a big disappointment, just as all men regretfully do. My advice to you—find one with a thick cock and thicker wallet, and take all you can from him while you're able. That's the best we women can do where the opposite sex is concerned." She laughs again, a deep, grating sound that only heightens Mary's nausea. "Just don't count on Charles's wallet, dearie. That belongs to me. But by all means, do what you want with his cock."

"Now," Mary spits, her leg physically quaking as her vision begins to spot. The room is beginning to slant, her knee crying out for a relief she cannot afford to give it just yet. "Out."

"Baring your teeth now," Freda goads. "Impressive. I'm sure he enjoys those while you've got him bound and blindfolded." Narrowed eyes stare hard at her, and Mary has to restrain herself from spitting in the woman's face. "But just remember. No matter what you do to him in bed, no matter if he marries you and gets you pregnant half a dozen times, I had him first. And there's no way in hell he's ever going to forget it."

"What in God's name did he do to you to make you so bitter?" Mary manages, inhaling with every ounce of stubbornness she can muster. "See you for who you really are? Call you out on your selfish attempt to use him for your own gain?

"Oh, hell," Freda retorts with a wave of her hand. "What is love if not finding someone who selfishly makes us happy because of what they can do for us? Love is about personal gain, and anyone who says otherwise is lying." She then pauses and leans in close enough for Mary to smell the unmistakable scent of Chanel. "And to answer your question, Charles Blake did two things I'll never forgive."

Both women swallow, the air between them pulsing and humid.

"He found a mistress," Freda hisses with a coy flick of her brow. "And he proved me wrong."

Her clutches fall to the floor, making Freda jump back to avoid being hit as Mary grasps the back of a chair for support. Her chest is tight, her lungs uncooperative, and she closes her eyes in an attempt to block out the past ten minutes of her life.

"What the hell is she doing here?"

She inhales her first full breath at the sound of Lucy's voice, feeling welcome arms steady her decisively before they retrieve her crutches.

"Well, well," Freda smiles, the sight of such sending a chill up Mary's spine. "The gang's all here, it would seem. Is Mummy dearest on her way up, too?"

"Is she bothering you, Mary?" Lucy asks, the concern in her voice cutting through the insistent ringing in her ears.

"Mary, is it?" Freda croons triumphantly. "How lovely. It suits you, somehow."

"Shut up," Lucy cuts in, leading Mary to her favorite chair and helping her sit as quickly as possible. "You're not welcome here, Freda. I suggest you leave now."

"So you're already chummy with the family," Freda muses, ignoring Lucy completely and speaking directly to Mary. "Be careful, Mary. They're a nasty lot who will try to get you to conform to their way of thinking and have you produce baby after baby." She then turns on Lucy, the glaring match between the two women almost frightening. "Oops. I shouldn't have said something like that in front you, Lucy. Forgive me."

Mary gasps, turning in her chair as quickly as she can, regretting the move almost immediately as a pain stabs her just over her kneecap.

"I stopped forgiving you a long time ago," Lucy hums dangerously. "Around the same time I stopped caring about what you had to say."

"If you don't care, why are you so hostile?" Freda questions with shrug. "You Blakes are so full of contradictions and righteous indignation. It's amazing you accomplish anything in life with all of the time you spend finding faults in others."

"And you're so full of shit," Lucy tosses back. "So why don't you take what you've dropped and leave before I have Charles contact his attorney and he has you escorted out of here."

A charged silence takes over, the two adversaries staring each other down as Mary breathes in and out, collecting her composure as the pain in her knee begins to abate somewhat.

"I'm going," Freda announced breezily, her tone suggesting this course of action is all her idea. "Lovely meeting you, Mary. And remember what I said."

"How odd," Mary tosses in. "I seem to have forgotten already."

Those black eyes size her up once again, overt hostility glaring back at her with no attempt at disguising it.

"Then you deserve what you get in the end," Freda remarks, twirling on her heels and making for the front door before she pauses and tosses a manila envelope on the table. "Oh, and here. Give this to your lover boy. Tell him that any shot of further negotiation on my part just flew out the window. Good-bye."

And with that, she is gone.

Lucy walks to the door, shutting it decisively, her hand resting on it as she exhales loud enough to summon Andromeda's attention.

"I hate her."

The words come as no surprise, and Mary pushes herself up in her seat, still too rattled for intelligent conversation.

"I can see why," she manages, shaking her head to rid herself of implications that could very well be nothing more than lies.

Lucy moves to the sofa, depositing a paper bag on the table in front of her, shoving Freda's envelope mercilessly to the side.

"Are you alright?" Charles's sister asks quickly. "You look like you're in pain."

"I've been better," Mary admits, wincing as a sharp jolt flies up her leg. "But my knee is calming down bit by bit."

Lucy purses her lips, staring at her with the unwavering look of a physician.

"Where's your medication?" she inquires, standing and dusting her palms over her black slacks.

"By my bed," Mary answers. "But I'll be fine."

"You need to eat, take your pain pill, and then rest," Lucy instructs her. "I'm not a doctor, but I'm married to one, remember?"

"I remember," Mary states with a sigh. "But the medication makes me sleepy, and I haven't been awake all that long."

"That doesn't matter," Lucy argues as she moves to the kitchen and pours Mary a glass of water. "Rest will do your knee a world of good, and there's no need for you to suffer through pain unnecessarily." She returns to the sofa, handing Mary the water before sitting down herself. "Trust me on this, alright?"

"Alright," Mary concedes, taking a drink, wishing her mind would stop spinning in one hundred different directions at once.

"Don't let her get to you," Lucy insists, opening the bag and retrieving two boxed salads. "That woman is a master manipulator who likes to twist everything and everyone to her advantage."

"She's a piece of work, alright," Mary agrees, setting her water down in front of her. "How in God's name did Charles end up with her?"

"I wish I knew," Lucy murmured, pulling out some artisan bread to accompany their salads. "That's the question the entire family has been asking ever since he married her. Here."

Lucy hands her a napkin and plastic utensils, waiting for Mary to get situated before setting lunch in her hands.

"I hope this is alright," Lucy interjects. "Alonzo's is one of my favorite places for lunch."

"It's perfect," Mary insists, unwilling to inform Lucy that her stomach is still in shambles from her earlier confrontation with Freda. Mistress. The word burns in her brain, the amount of venom in Freda's tone enough to make Mary wonder if there is any validity to her accusation. Had Charles been unfaithful to his wife? God, could she blame him if he had been now that she has met the woman for herself? But he has never mentioned another woman, not even in the early days of their odd relationship, and this eats at her, making her want to ask Lucy about it yet keep it to herself at the same time.

Does she really want to know, in all honesty? Would the answer change matters between them? God, she isn't even sure how things stand between them now, much less what would happen if he confessed to having an affair.

But if he is still technically married, are they technically on the verge of an affair at this very moment?

"What's wrong, Mary?" Lucy asks, her fork stopping half-way to her mouth. "What did she say to you?"

"Nothing," Mary lies with a tight smile. "She just insisted that she had every right to see Charles since their divorce isn't yet final and made herself at home without my permission."

"Their divorce isn't yet final because of her," Lucy states. "She's the one who has drawn everything out in her quest of trying to rob him of every pound he has earned since she left him. He has tried to speed the process along more than once, only to be stalled and frustrated at every turn." She exhales audibly, turning slightly in her seat. "Charles needs a new attorney, one who will fight harder for him and stand up to Elliot and Freda. Rob and I have told him this more than once, but he just wants it all to be over and to go away. Idiot."

A small laugh escapes her, her heart squeezing at the mere thought of the man in question. The man whose kisses consume her, whose touch sets her on fire, whose tenderness has instigated a meltdown she now fears to be irreversible. Her walls are down, her heart exposed, her happiness on the line yet again.

Had she learned nothing from what happened with Matthew?

They eat in relative silence for several minutes, Mary forcing down food in order to appease the woman sitting across from her.

"Do you think she ever loved him?"

The question flies from her mouth before she can stop it, and Lucy sets down her lunch, wiping her mouth thoughtfully before answering.

"No," she replies. "I don't know that she's capable of actually loving someone other than herself, to be honest. I think she used him from the beginning, and he fell for her charm hook, line and sinker."

"Charm?" Mary quips, making Lucy chuckle. "Does the woman possess any?"

"She turns it on and off at will," Lucy explains. "I wouldn't have believed it had I not seen her in action. Freda is quite the actress, actually."

"Poor Charles," Mary muses, her pulse speeding ahead in a mad rush. "His marriage had to have been miserable."

"For everyone," Lucy admits, taking a drink of her water. "But for him, most of all. Charles is very loyal, you understand, almost annoyingly so at times. He tried for so long to find the good in Freda, to remind himself of why he married her in the first place, but she denied him that option at every turn. When he finally gave up, I think a part of him withered up and died."

Mary's brow cinches, her mind trying to work out what Lucy has just told her in relation to Freda's scathing allegations. And then there is the man she knows, or thinks she knows, the man practically living with her, the man who rocked her body to the edge of insanity and back last night.

Shit.

"Until he met you, that is," Lucy adds with a small grin. "I've not seen him this happy in a long time, Mary. You've brought that part of him back to life, I think."

She swallows, her mind swirling in a dizzying rush that makes her feel horribly off-kilter.

"Don't give me too much credit," Mary rebuts, setting down her half-finished salad. "You have no idea how short a time we've been together."

"That doesn't really matter, does it?" Lucy asserts. "You've already shown him he can live and love again, that his life is still full of possibility and promise. You have no idea how much he needed that."

Her thoughts fly to Matthew, her eyes fall to her lap.

"I think I do, actually," Mary reasons, hearing Lucy's hum of agreement beside her. "But that doesn't mean that we know where this is going."

"I know," Lucy mutters, taking another sip of water. "And I won't press you. That's for the two of you to decide."

She smiles at this, her mind still in three different places at once, knowing Lucy will text Charles the moment she leaves to tell him of Freda's visit, wondering if Freda herself has already contacted him to twist the dagger in further she plunged into his heart months ago.

"What she said to you, Lucy," Mary begins. "About having children, I—"

"Don't worry about that," Lucy interrupts, raising her hand in front of her as if to ward of any lingering presence Freda may have left behind. "I've come to terms with my inability to bear a child. It hasn't been easy, but it is what it is, and I refuse to let that woman goad me into a reaction over something I cannot change."

Mary nods silently, doubting she would have the same fortitude in the matter.

"Still, it was very personal and a low blow," Mary reasons.

"Freda specializes in low blows," Lucy tosses back with a flick of her brow. "In more ways than one."

A puff of laughter escapes her, and Lucy joins in, the moment lightened somehow.

"Let me get you that medicine," Lucy volunteers, standing and walking in the direction Mary indicates. She returns with a prescription bottle, handing it to Mary and watching as she drops one of the pills into her palm.

"Why do I suddenly feel twelve years old?" Mary quips, drawing a wry grin from the other woman who is eyeing her too closely.

"Sorry," Lucy returns, backing up a step. "It's the mother in me showing through."

Mary flips her brow in response, popping the pill into her mouth and washing it down with a large gulp of water.

"Satisfied?" she questions. "Or would you like me to open wide and say Ahhh?"

"I trust you," Lucy chuckles, depositing what remains of their lunch to the rubbish bin and dusting off the table. "But I think it might be best if I leave so you can rest."

A yawn hits her right then, making them both smile as if on cue.

"If you could just hand me my crutches, I can take it from here," Mary instructs, a part of her craving the solitude she also dreads like the plague.

"Why don't you let me help you get settled?" Lucy asks. "I'd feel much better if you did."

"Did you teach Charles how to use that pouty look to get your way, or did he teach you?" Mary questions pointedly.

"Well, I am his big sister," Lucy answers. "And the middle child. I had to do something."

Mary grins and nods her consent, knowing it will be easier to accept Lucy's help rather than fighting a battle she doesn't have to face. To be honest, she welcomes it as it gives her one less thing to concern herself with in the here and now. There are hard questions looming, questions she will have to ask someone else later, someone she misses terribly yet now dreads facing like the plague.

Someone she needs like air.

They make their way to her bedroom, Lucy ensuring the crutches are easily accessible as Mary sits on her bed and manages to remove her shoes.

"Where do you like your pillow?" Lucy questions, moving the item under Mary's knee exactly where she indicates. "Is that alright."

"It's lovely," Mary assures her, their eyes locking momentarily. "Thank you, Lucy. For everything."

"You don't need to thank me," Lucy returns, her brows creasing in concern. "Just rest, alright? And try to forget anything Freda had to say about you or about Charles. Trust me. Nothing that woman has to say is worth taking to heart."

She nods wordlessly, wishing she could forget, that she could simply erase all ugly connotations that now glare behind her eyeballs like a screaming neon sign.

"You're right," she sighs, leaning back towards her headboard. "She just.."

The words are there, a willing ear standing nearby to absorb them and give answers. But they stick in her throat, held back by her need to address them with the accused rather than with his sister. Shit. She'd surely rest better if she would simply let it out, but she can't. Not yet, anyway.

"She what?" Lucy inquires, stepping forward. "What is it, Mary?"

"Nothing, really," Mary lies, adjusting her expression accordingly. "She just took me by surprise. That's all."

The other woman nods, seemingly unconvinced but unwilling to pry.

"She ambushes people," Lucy expounds. "Like the blitzkrieg."

"What a pleasant thought," Mary muses wryly, wishing she felt as unaffected as she is attempting to convey. "Perhaps I should board up my windows."

"And bar the door," Lucy adds with a rounding of her eyes, biting her lower lip in a gesture that reminds Mary of her brother all too clearly.

They smile, a mutual acknowledgement that their luncheon is now over. Lucy takes her leave with a hand squeeze and a wave, carefully shutting the bedroom door behind her with a muted click.

Then it is quiet. Too quiet for a London afternoon.

A sense of loneliness leeches into her bones, making her feel hollow and chilled, and she sinks into her mattress, squeezing her eyes shut against implications Freda must have thrown intentionally. Words meant to hurt hurled with a precision of a master hit their targets repeatedly, and she winces, trying repeatedly to drive them back, wishing she didn't feel so fragile and exposed. Freda's very motivation had most certainly been to riddle Mary's mind with doubts over a man who has come to mean far too much too soon.

But why? For spite? For financial gain? To keep a tight rein on a man who is moving on with his life, even when she was the one who walked out on him?

Damn the blasted woman. Why is Mary giving credit to anything Charles's ex-wife has to say, anyway? Because Freda is his ex-wife…and Mary is terrified that what happiness is finally seeping into her life will be instantly drained away with a snap of manicured fingers and the pull of a plug.

What hasn't Charles told her about the state of his divorce, she asks herself yet again as she burrows into the covers? And do those missing pieces of his past possess the power to hold sway over their future? God, she's already assuming that they have a future together, an assumption that could fall around her as precariously as a stack of blocks. But he has spoken of children, of them being an us, of her being…being…

What? The most beautiful woman he has ever known? How much weight does that carry in the scope of things? He hasn't told her that he loves her. Then again, she hasn't said those three little words to him, either.

And she does love him. God help her, she does.

Her head hurts, her limbs ache, and her knee decides at this moment to remind her that she pushed it too far in her determination not to back down from Freda. A tear hits her pillow, and she sniffs it back loudly, hitting the fluffy object as if it has insulted her by its mere presence.

"Charles."

His name is a whisper, a plea, a cry from fresh bruise, and she hates herself at this moment for letting him in as far as she has. He is everywhere now, his presence seeped in her mind, his soul imprinted on her heart, his touch absorbed by her body in places very few have entered.

"You bastard," she adds, wanting to kiss him, to smack him, to hold him on her bed until he tells her everything, wondering if he actually has and she's acting like an immature idiot over nothing. A groan escapes her, and she blinks in protest, wishing she could will herself into numbness.

But numbness is impossible when the heart is on the line.

"You fucking, idiot bastard," she mumbles one last time before hitting the pillow hard yet again, fisting her blanket in her fingers and crying herself slowly to sleep.


She feels him before she sees him, sensing his presence by the side of the bed, becoming slowly aware of the fact that he wants to wake her but cannot bring himself to do it. His feet shuffle, and she hears him sigh, forcing herself to keep her eyes closed and her breathing steady.

She's not ready for this. Not yet. God, not yet.

But then she hears him turn on his heels, knowing he is going to leave the room and let her rest until she wakes up on her own. The thought terrifies her, and she swallows down her misgivings, blinking open her eyes in time to catch his retreating form.

"You're back."

He turns to look at her, his expression cracking something inside of her wide open, something that warms her from head to toe even as her stomach clenches in dread.

"And you're awake," he returns, stepping back to her bedside, sitting down gently on the edge. He reaches for her hand with a hesitation he hadn't shown but a few hours ago, and she realizes he is uncertain of just how she will react to his touch.

She welcomes it without thinking, her body reacting before her mind can catch up.

"I'm still groggy, though," Mary admits with a yawn. He smiles at the timing, but the smile only travels half-way up his cheeks, his eyes too weighted with worry to respond.

"I'd like to be groggy right now," he utters, and she fights the urge to gather him in her arms and comfort him as she would her own child. "It would be much preferable to how I'm feeling at the moment."

She inhales slowly in an attempt to both steady and clear her mind.

"Your ex-wife certainly leaves a mark," she notes, forcing her voice through the lingering edges of sleep.

She feels his shoulders slump forward, the expression of utter defeat on his face almost more than she can stomach.

"I'm so sorry, Mary," Charles breathes, holding her hand tighter now as he rubs her fingers restlessly with his own. "You shouldn't have had to meet her on your own like that."

"I survived to tell the tale," she quips, watching his brows crease further at her statement.

"I had no doubt that you would," he returns. "And I'm certain you left quite an impression on her, as well. But I should have been here, I should have been with you when she showed up like that. I should have intervened on your behalf."

"You couldn't have known she was going to turn up as she did," she assures him. "You're not psychic. At least, I don't think you are."

He shakes his head at this, one side of his mouth lifting upwards.

"I just shouldn't have left you alone in the first place," he argues, his demeanor becoming serious again. "Your knee is still unsteady. I should have—"

"Stop it, Charles."

He pauses mid-sentence, looking back at her with an expression that makes her think of a puppy who has chewed up his owner's slippers.

"There's no use in going over what we should or should not have done," she continues. "It happened. I met her. And it's over."

His face finally lightens, just a fraction, but it is enough. He leans forward a bit, still cognizant of an invisible border drawn somewhere between them, still uncertain of where they stand.

"I hope she wasn't too terrible to you," he states, his eyes informing her in no uncertain terms that he doubts this is the case. "God only knows what she had to say about me."

The opening stares at her blatantly, an unexpected entrance the size of the Rock of Gibraltar just waiting for her to step through. Her heart thuds uncomfortably as she stares at him, and she pushes herself up on her elbows, allowing him to quickly arrange her pillows behind her for support.

"She said you were still married."

No shock. No surprise. No guilt or fear. Just an absent nod as his fingers lace themselves more intricately with hers.

"Only until next week, supposedly," he breathes, rubbing his other hand across his scalp. "I cannot wait for this to be over, Mary. Well and truly over."

"I just hadn't realized, I mean…"

Her voice trails off as understanding tries to take root.

"You thought our divorce was already final?"

His inquiry is so unguarded, so open that she knows he has not knowingly misled her. At least when it comes to this matter.

"I assumed it was," Mary admits, and he then lifts her hand to his mouth, kissing her knuckles lightly, holding them to his lips seconds longer than necessary. She feels the contact reverberate across every rib, her chest expanding as unnatural constriction begins to give way.

"I'm sorry," Charles sighs. "God, I'm sorry. I should have made certain you were aware of the details. I should have been more clear." He stops and looks at her, daring one scoot in her direction. "I didn't deliberately mislead you, Mary," he insists, his eyes falling to his hands. "I hope you can believe that."

She squeezes his hand in return and feels a shudder move through his arm.

"I suppose I should have been more open about our proceedings," he continues. "But I hated to involve you in that ugly part of my life. You are so far removed from Freda, and my life here with you, well…"

He stops, realizing what he has implied.

"I just didn't want to taint anything," he whispers, the muscles on his face twitching in a pattern she has never before seen. She pushes herself up to a fully seated position, and her arm stretches out to him, her hand touching his face, cupping his cheek, feeling a completion that takes her by surprise. He leans into her hand, and she traces the smooth surface, different than the stubbled terrain of this morning.

"Do our pasts taint us, then?' she inquires, and he shakes his head immediately, holding her palm to his face.

"No," he insists, looking back at her directly. "And it was stupid of me to keep what is happening with my divorce to myself. Forgive me?"

She sighs a smile on to her face, and he reaches out to trace its shape with his thumb, making her shiver even under the sheets. Her eyes close at the sensation, and she needs him now, in so many ways, in so many places. She pulls his face to hers, making contact with his lips, absorbing the feathered lightness of renewed intimacy, breathing in this man who has her completely unsettled in all the right and wrong ways. Noses touch, breaths intermingle, and fingers snake into hair, a massaging sensation on her scalp threatening to lull her into oblivion of a question she must ask. But ask she must.

He feels her stiffen and leans back just so, concern etching his features yet again.

"What is it?" he asks. "What is it you want to know?"

She swallows down a thickness in her throat, failing to hold back a pool of moisture pressing against her eyes. Her hands begin to tremble, and he encases them in his own, the warmth of him a balm, the nearness of him almost too much.

"Tell me," he insists, rubbing his nose against her own, nearly buckling her resolve. "Nothing is off-limits from you."

She moves her hands to his chest, pushing him back just enough, licking her lips as eyes lock firmly upon each other.

"Where are we?"

Her words are barely audible, breaking across her tongue, and she feels him exhale as he once again takes her hands within his own.

"That's the question, isn't it?"

He gives her that half-smile of his before moving his gaze back to her fingers, his mouth pursing in concentration.

"I'm not sure where we are, exactly," he begins. "But I know what I want."

Her pulse hammers against her temples, her throat now the texture of sandpaper.

"And what is that?" she asks, unable to draw her gaze from eyes that have become nearly opaque. Her heart balances precariously on the edge of a cliff, praying he doesn't push her over as a sense of vertigo hits her hard.

"You," he answers, moving their hands until they hover over his heart. "I want you, Mary. All of you, all of this, all of what we can be, all of what we aren't just yet." A tear escapes her, and he wipes it away gently before she can tend to it herself. "I've fallen in love with you, you blasted woman," he admits, her chest exploding with something that makes her giggle in spite of herself. "Completely and idiotically in love with you."

She kisses him then, tentatively yet fully, feeling him water her soul as her arms wrap themselves around his neck. Tongues stroke and touch, then he engulfs her in his arms, moving close enough until bodies are flush and mouths fully connected, lips hungrily seeking as a new realm now lies shimmering before them.

"Say something," he manages, tracing her cheekbones with his thumb as she fists his shirt in her palm. "Don't leave me hanging on a limb like this."

"Idiot," she states, and he laughs softly, kissing her again as her hands work their way over his scalp. She cannot let go just yet, cannot bring herself to interrupt what is making her heart sing and soar, and she hugs him to her closer as her face moves to his neck and buries itself in the crook of his shoulder. He cups the back of her head, kissing her cheek, her temple, holding on to her as if she is a treasure he has sought for his entire life.

"I love you, too."

She whispers the words into his neck, across his skin, but he hear them, feels them, and embraces her all the tighter, binding her to him in as missing pieces of herself begin to fit themselves together. He fits her, she realizes, and the thought makes her tremble everywhere at once.

"This isn't a game anymore, is it?" she questions, and he draws back, shaking his head immediately.

"No," he affirms. "It's as real as that blasted cat of yours."

"Be careful," she warns, her voice no more than a warm whisper. "She's been known to eavesdrop."

"And who taught her that trick, I wonder?' he breathes, his half-smile making her grin, making her want, making her warm and liquefied all over.

They hold each other as minutes tick by, kissing, reveling, absorbing what is new. She pulls back then, her heart stilling in her chest as an unanswered question pushes its way to the forefront of her mind.

"There's something else, isn't there?" he questions, and she nods immediately, hating to break the spell cast over her bed. "Did I do something wrong?"

She smiles and shivers, and he looks at her hard, seeing something she cannot hide anymore, something they must address.

"No," she answers, biting her lower lip. "At least I hope not."

His face flickers in confusion as his thumb traces her knuckles.

"Something Freda said, then?" he continues, and her face begins to pulse uncomfortably. "What is it, Mary?" he whispers, calling her to him with touch and promise. "What did she say?"

She exhales pent up air from her lungs, sitting up taller, looking at him eye to eye. It has to be asked, has to be dealt with, and it should happen now, before she digs herself in any deeper.

"She said you had a mistress," Mary answers, the words rattling in her rib cage as they leave her body. "Did you, Charles?" she questions, a knot forming in her throat as he stares back at her. "Was there another woman?"