Chapter 873

Rosalind's pulse quickened at the mention of marriage.

"Who would I even marry?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Lucian responded by capturing her lower lip between his teeth in playful retaliation.

"Ouch!" Rosalind gasped, pulling back slightly. "That actually hurt!"

His gaze burned into hers. "Good. Now answer me properly—who do you want to marry?"

"Is there anyone else?" Her voice softened. "I meant...have you ever considered marrying me?"

Marrying Lucian Graves.

The thought sent shivers down her spine. It seemed sudden, yet inevitable. Had fate not intervened three years ago, they might already be wearing wedding bands by now.

She turned the question back to him. "Do you want to marry me?"

His arms encircled her waist, pulling her flush against him. "More than anything. The real question is—do you want to be my wife?"

Rosalind's heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Lucian straightened, his voice dropping to that intimate rasp that always unraveled her. "Marry me. I had nothing when we first met, but now I can give you the world. Back then, I never dared hope you'd say yes. But these past three years..." His throat worked. "Every night without you was agony. Do you know what it's like to crave someone's presence so deeply it physically hurts? I've never loved anyone like this."

Steam curled around them in the bathroom, his confession whispered against her skin as Charlotte slept nearby. That rough, vulnerable tone shattered her last defenses.

Three years of longing poured between them.

Three years of his unwavering love.

When Rosalind met his eyes, the intensity there nearly stole her breath.

Lucian cradled her face. "Will you marry me, Rosalind Fairchild?"

Her heart hammered wildly. Every fiber of her being screamed the answer.

"Yes." The word burst from her lips. "I'll marry you."

She wanted this—wanted to wake up beside him every morning, to build a life together.

His mouth crashed onto hers in a searing kiss that tasted like promises. Rosalind tangled her fingers in his hair, returning his passion with equal fervor. "Once we find the Frostbloom and heal your scars," she murmured against his lips, "let's have our wedding."

Lucian nodded, his forehead resting against hers. "I'll look just like before—the man you fell for."

She opened her mouth to protest—to say she loved every version of him, scars and all—but he silenced her with another kiss.

Somewhere in the haze of pleasure, his whisper curled around her: "Let's make a baby."

Across town, Harrison had taken Charlotte home. With Nathaniel's health declining, she'd been constantly occupied with his care.

Meanwhile, Rosalind and Lucian embarked for Santorina, hunting the elusive Frostbloom—a flower that bloomed only once every half-century, their last hope for restoring Lucian's face.

They arrived by evening, checking into a quaint hillside inn.

The proprietor beamed at them. "Honeymooners, yes?"

These days, they moved as one entity—so inseparable that strangers naturally assumed they were married.

Rosalind didn't correct him.

Why would she? Soon enough, it would be true.