The room was still spinning for Carcel. His jaw throbbed with a dull, heavy rhythm that matched the beating of his heart. He tasted copper and salt—blood and sweat. He stood swaying slightly, using the bedpost to keep himself upright, but his eyes remained locked on Rowan.
He had said the words. I will marry her.
Now, he had to make them stick.
He took a breath, wincing as his ribs protested. He looked at his best friend, the man whose knuckles were currently stained with his blood.
"That way," Carcel said, his voice raspy but firm, "there is no need to worry about her honor. Or the family reputation."
He gestured vaguely with a trembling hand toward the disheveled room—the unmade bed, the slightly torn nightgown, the incriminating silence.
"The scandal dies here," Carcel continued. "If she agrees to marry me… then everything that happened tonight… everything that happened before… it becomes a courtship. It becomes… acceptable."
