"This is all my fault." I heard Francis say somewhere away from me as I drifted. "If I hadn't—" he stumbled.

"This isn't your fault anymore than it's hers, Francis," Catherine said. "She just needs time."

"But I've given her time—us time." I heard his sigh. "It isn't getting any better. She isn't getting better, mother."

"But she is, son," Catherine comforted. "As hard as it is to witness her cry and hear her scream during a nightmare, it helps her process what happened. It helps her heal."

"At what cost?!" Francis argued. "According to Nostradamus, she either fainted from stress, an undiagnosed concussion, or bleeding in the brain, which would kill her. Can you tell me which of those ailments isn't related to the attack?

"This . . ." he trailed off. "This thing has taken everything away from her, from me, from us. I don't know what to do or how to make her feel better. For all of the protection I've tried so hard to provide, I have failed her." He paused, releasing a shaky breath. "I have failed her."

"Look at me," she said. "You have not failed her. You are a good husband, who has done everything in his power to protect her, to keep her safe. You are not a failure, Francis: those men are—to God and society."

"Yet I have continued to fail as her husband despite my actions."

"Failure, like many things, is perspective. Mary knows you didn't fail her Francis. In her heart, she knows," Catherine said.

"That isn't true," Francis said. "She blames me. She told me herself." His breaths became loud and uneven. "She told me right before her request that we 'lead separate lives.'"

"Were you so distracted by your concern that you failed to notice the object resting at her side? The pillow that you've slept on every night of your marriage?"

Silence weighed down the room.

"I don't—I don't understand," he finally said.

"When I entered, your pillow was tightly clutched to her chest. Her face was buried in it as if it was a stuffed teddy bear, Francis. Don't doubt her love for you. Not now . . ." she trailed off.

I felt the weight of her gaze on my shut eyes. It was still heavy, and cold in many ways . . . but it no longer held the bitterness of animosity. It now held something else, something different that I couldn't quite put a name on.

It was pleasant.

"What if she doesn't wake up?"

The sound of Francis' cracked voice and quiet sobs was enough to make my heart break. His quiet footsteps carried across the room, until I could feel his warm breath on my still body.

"She's strong, Francis. And stubborn." My lip twitched when I heard the smile in her voice. Perhaps she likes me more than she's let on. "She will get through this," Catherine finished, before the door slipped shut.

Nothing but the constant throbs and Francis and I's beating hearts filled the room. His thuds were quick and uneven: unsure. With the gentlest of touch, Francis brushed his thumb over my cheek—a comforting gesture he had performed many times before.

"My Mary," he whispered.

His touch made my heart jump with surprise, but not discomfort. There was no pain or fear or guilt, unlike when people had touched me before.

After his thumb finished lightly brushing against my cheek, he carefully moved his hand to cup my face. His hand caressed my cheek, light as a feather, as he did so.

"I love you."

They were simple words, but they were enough. A single tear dripped down his cheek onto my face, and in that moment I knew what I had to do, what I had the strength to do.

I opened my eyes to blonde curls and a teary-eyed smile.

"Mary," Francis murmured, resting his palm against my cheek.

"Francis?"

I blinked my eyes rapidly. The light in the room was truly much too bright.

"It's alright. Everything is going to be alright," he comforted me.

He stroked my cheek one final time, before he began to move his hand away.

"Don't!" I blurted out. Instinctively, I looked at his face and read his blatant surprise. "Don't—Don't move your hand away, please. It makes me feel . . ." I hesitated, "better." Is 'better' the right word? Warm and safer?

Francis' blue eyes widened in shock.

"You—You want me to touch you?"

A tear dripped down my cheek, and I smiled.

"Yes."

Francis choked out a mixture of happiness and relief as he kneeled by my side on the bed and moved his hand to caress my cheek.

"I love you so much," he said with tears in his eyes. "I'm so sorry. I can't tell you how sorry I am."

I choked up on my own tears.

"Then don't. Don't tell me how sorry you are because I don't blame you. I can't." I breathed. "Just tell me that you love me, and you will keep me safe and that's enough." Francis pulled away from me. "That's enough, Francis," I whispered as I reached for his face.

"I love you, Mary, and I can promise that I will always do everything in my power to keep you safe." He sighed and made a brief glance away from my face. "But we can't pretend I haven't failed you before."

"Because you weren't there?" I said. "Because you were doing everything in your power to keep me safe?"

"Yesterday you weren't so sanguine."

"Because blaming you was easier than admitting I blamed myself!" My hand immediately flew to my mouth. I shouldn't have said that. Tears watered in my eyes, and I looked down at the palms of my hands, horrified.

"Is this what you've been keeping from me?" Francis whispered. "Is this why you won't let me touch you?" He desperately placed his hand next to me on the mattress.

A shaky breath escaped my lips. "Any touch runs the risk of reminding me . . ." I trailed off.

His eyes glistened with tears. "What can I do, Mary?"

"I don't think there is anything to be done, Francis," I said in a raspy voice. "They've won. They've degraded and broken a queen."

"Mary—"

"No, Francis!" I cried. "I'm broken, can't you see it? Can't you feel it when you look into my eyes and see nothing but the toxic, horrible, disgusting—" I sobbed, when Francis suddenly pulled me into his arms.

My first reaction was discomfort. Someone was touching me intimately, and my brain hated it. But my second reaction was stronger. It was a sense of peace, warmth, love that I so desperately needed because it had the potential to make my heart whole again. My heart craved his touch, the safety and love that his scent promised alone.

"It's alright, Mary." Francis comforted me while I choked on sobs in his arms. "Everything is going to be alright," he promised.

His voice was raspy and vulnerable, which reminded me that I wasn't the only one who suffered from the attack. The rape had destroyed us both in its own ways.

"I love you, Francis," I whispered as I cried in his arms.

"As I love you," he said, before pulling me closer to his chest.

Finally, both of us had the one thing we needed: each other.

AN: I'm not gonna lie, this chapter was hard :( It made me tear up, but in a touching, satisfying way. Honestly, I feel like I could leave this story here . . .

But I don't want to. Please make sure to comment and vote on any chapter you can! It helps me know you're enjoying the story and want more :)

I can't possibly explain how grateful I am that you are reading my book so thank you❤️
-Elly6431