Author's Note: Would you believe me if I told you it was this chapter that has held me up for the past year?

SAMSON

Midnight came far too soon, and brought with it a light breeze, cooling the heavy summer air that hung stagnant over London.

Samson paced the gardens, a shadow within shadows, trying and failing to calm his pounding heart. The only light came from the quarter moon that hung high in the sky, occasionally disappearing behind clouds and patches of fog.

He heard her before he saw her, heard the soft padding of footsteps and the whisper of her nightgown. When she appeared at the end of the path to the gardens, Samson felt his heart and his mind go still.

Calm.

Quiet.

Her hair was unbound, curling down around her shoulders and glinting silver-gold in the moonlight. She wore a silken robe that shimmered as she walked, and with every step he caught glimpses of the smooth skin of her legs.

Christ.

She did not see him, but he had no doubt she was aware of his presence. She made her way down the path and into the small courtyard that held the rose garden. A pergola had been built to support the vines of the climbing roses, and to shade visitors during the day. Beneath it, they were shielded from the rest of the world, completely hidden from view.

Lena stopped in the center of the garden.

"Are you hiding from me?" she teased, her voice whisper-soft.

Samson moved within the shadows, circling around her.

"No, Helena," he replied. She turned towards his voice, reaching for him on instinct. He had just enough strength to keep himself from reaching back. "After tonight, I will never hide from you, or run from you, or push you away. Ever again."

He heard her catch her breath. "Swear it," she commanded, searching for him in the darkness.

His voice was gravel, deep and rough. "I give you my word."

And he meant it.

"Tell me," she whispered. "Tell me what it is that you think will make me stop loving you."

Samson took a deep, calming breath, searching for the words he needed. Searching for the strength to say them.

"It is with considerable difficulty that I remember the origin of my creation," he said quietly, "but in the years that followed, I was able to gather enough information to determine the nature and circumstances of it. I was pieced together from the corpses of dead criminals by a scientist named Victor Frankenstein, and brought to life by lightning. So you see, I am not human, Helena. I am entirely unnatural, an abomination of God's design." He grit his teeth and closed his eyes. "I have killed innocent people. I… Lena, I killed a child. A little boy."

There.

It was done.

It had been said.

Now she knew.

The silence was agonizing. If he concentrated hard enough, he could hear her heart beating in her chest. She had not moved from the center of the arbor. She stood, framed by moonlight and roses, and Samson took a moment to memorize her completely.

And then, finally, she spoke.

"On purpose?" she demanded.

His mind went utterly blank. "What?"

Her voice was calm and patient. "Did you kill him on purpose, Samson?"

His heart froze at the thought. "No," he rasped, "but it doesn't matter. He is dead."

"Tell me what happened."

Somehow, through the haze of despair, he found his voice.

"I found him playing in the woods. I thought he was alone, like me. Abandoned, like me. I meant to take him, to raise him as my own. I wanted a friend, someone who would not fear my appearance. Abigail had not been afraid. But when William saw me, he started screaming…" the memories came, washing over him like the cold, dark waters of the river that had nearly taken Lena from him. "He just… he wouldn't stop. I just wanted him to stop. I put my hand over his mouth. I didn't know… I forget my strength."

Golden light flared around Helena. A single flame glowed in a lamp suspended from the wooden lattice above them. Samson winced at the sudden, unwelcome intrusion into his world of shadows.

But he did not back away from it. He could not hide from this any longer.

He could not hide from her any longer.

He dropped to his knees as she approached him. He was not ready to face this. But he had given her his word. And even though his heart was a gaping, bleeding wound in his chest, he did not shy away from her.

He had given her his word.

She stopped inches away and tilted her head back to look at him. Even on his knees, he was taller than her.

"Samson," she said quietly, "I am not God; I cannot absolve you of your sins. Every human has a burden to carry, and yours is greater than most. But that little boy's death was an accident. I know you, Samson. You did not mean to hurt him."

"He is still dead," Samson whispered.

"So he is," she replied. "And I will share that burden with you, if you will let me."

Then she moved forward, and wrapped her arms around his neck, and when she leaned against him, his damaged heart came to rest against hers.

And he was whole again.

"I love you, Samson," she said.

"Marry me, Helena," he replied.

HELENA

Four days later, just as the first rays of sunlight began to pierce the blue-gray morning fog, Helena met Samson at the altar of a small, cozy chapel on the outskirts of London.

He took her hands in his.

Tiny sparks danced over their skin.

And in that deep, rumbling voice, Samson said the vows that made him her husband.

And then Lena looked up into his flickering, golden eyes, and she said the vows that made her a wife.

His wife.

The moment the words were spoken, Samson pulled Lena into his arms and kissed her. He tasted like life, like hope and joy and laughter and sunshine and everything that was good in the world.

They said their farewells to everyone on the front steps of the chapel, as they had booked a room at a quiet inn only a few streets away. Lena's mother cried, and that caused Abby and Margot to start crying, which made little Mickey cry. After shaking hands with Samson, Greg and Jasper exchanged long-suffering glances and then led the women back to the carriage, along with Jack and Mickey.

And then it was just Samuel, standing before them on the sidewalk, freshly bathed and dressed in a navy suit that had been tailored to his thin frame. His jaw was set, and his lips were pressed to a thin line. When Lena approached him, he narrowed his eyes up at her, still wary, still prickly.

The two of them had spoken at length, over the past few days, about what he and his brothers had gone through in their short lives, and about what was to come in the future.

Specifically, about how three poor, orphaned little boys could possibly be meant for this fairytale world they currently inhabited.

Lena offered him a wry smile. "Have you pinched yourself yet, today?"

On cue, the boy reached up and pinched his own arm. "Still can't wake up," he said in a toneless voice.

"That's because it's not a dream, cabbage," Lena whispered. Sam made a face at the pet name, but his lips twitched upwards like he wanted to smile. "We'll be back in time for supper tomorrow. Don't forget to have the footmen pack the rest of the toys that are in the attic."

Sam snorted. "As if I could forget it, what wif Mickey reminding me every two bleeding seconds."

Lena chuckled. And then, on impulse, she leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

He jerked away and stared up at her, looking pale and distraught. Confused. Angry. For a moment, Lena thought he might start shouting at her.

But then those pale, troubled blue eyes filled with tears. He whipped around, rubbing furiously at his face, and rushed off to the carriage. He didn't look back.

"I've upset him," Lena observed, watching the carriage roll away into the morning fog.

Her husband moved up beside her and slid his hand into hers.

"He'll be fine," he murmured. "He's just frightened. Millau is a long way from London."

Lena bit her lip, frowning. "Do you think the boys will like France?"

Samson chuckled. "Yes," he said simply. "They will love it there."

And then he reached down and swept her up into his arms, eliciting a delighted gasp from Lena as her heart leapt into her throat. He started walking in the direction of the inn, and she sighed happily, sliding her arms up around his neck. She took a moment to just look at him, to study the play of soft light on his skin, the way his scars silvered in the light of a nearby streetlamp. He had tied his hair back in a queue at the nape of his neck, and his suit was the finest black linen, perfectly tailored to his enormous frame, accented by a gold silk waistcoat and shining gold buttons.

He looked so proper; so civilized.

And yet, beneath the linen and silk, he was all hard muscle and heat, and he still smelled like pine and leather and woodsmoke.

He smelled like her companion.

Her soulmate.

Her husband.

"Samson?"

He glanced down at her. "Yes, love?"

"There is something I've been wondering about you for a very long time."

He lifted one eyebrow, a sly smile curling his lips. "And what is that?"

"Your scars…" she hesitated, tracing one of the pale lines over his collarbone with her fingertip, "do you have them… everywhere?"

There was the tiniest of hesitations, and then his eyes widened in sudden comprehension. He grinned. Mischief and amusement and something darker, and hungrier, glinted in those brilliant golden eyes. His arms tightened around her, and a growl rumbled deep within his chest.

"Care to find out?" he murmured.

Lena leaned up and put her lips to his ear, and whispered, "I fully intend to."