"It is I, Hadrian," Lorraine said, her voice smooth, almost amused, as if unveiling the most obvious truth. A slow, deliberate smile played on her lips.
Leroy stepped closer, his presence unwavering. His hand found its way to her head, resting there in a gesture that was both gentle and possessive, as a silent claim.
"Not my mistress," he declared, his voice low, firm, and laced with undeniable pride. "My wife."
Lorraine didn't need to look at him to feel the pride radiating from every inch of his being.
Despite everything, despite the precariousness of their position, how she could very well be the small hole in the ship that sank them all, he remained proud. Her husband, the man who had seen her at her worst and best, held his pride in the fact that she was his.
Hadrian stared. Stared as if trying to make sense of the absurdity that confronted him. "It can't be…" he mumbled, his voice fragile, almost a whisper, after a while.
