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“The closer, the better,” he said, lifting his gaze to hers. He pushed the cup toward the middle of the table, pushed his sleeves up his arms, and over his elbows—muscular, strong arms.

Not only did she hate that she loved him for it, and loved that she hated it, which felt like the beginning of something she could not stop. She was making her heart vulnerable again, for love, family, and loss could tear her apart in ways worse than the hounds.

There, the emotion had a name now and wouldn’t ever vanish again. Love.

“I’ll always keep you safe,” he said.

I do not want a keeper. I like it when this man chooses me.

I want to watch him play chess all night and then bring me home safely in the morning.

I want you.

“You blocked my view today at the Den,” Rosine said.

“You should not have gone to the gambling floor,” he went on, softer now, as if he understood that a scold would break something he did not want broken. He always spoke as if he’d known her innermost thoughts. She’d read a book once about soulmates, but didn’t believe the idea more than a romantic farce. Until now. “I wanted to shield you, but not because you cannot bear it.”

“Then why stand between me and the world?”

“They aren’t our world and may not want us in theirs, which could mean danger,” he said. “They don’t even know the world. In Russia, they pen us into the Pale—districts you cannot leave without papers. When trouble comes, a fence holds you still and makes you a target.”

Her fingers tightened on the cup. “In Strasbourg, there was no fence. They came anyway—windows smashed, shutters ripped, names shouted. The broadsheets called it a ‘disturbance’ and went back to Waterloo and racing. I survived because I hid, but…”

He nodded once. “Austria uses paper for the same work—Familiantenrecht. It’s a threat that’s even found the Lyon’s Den. Under this special law against Jews, a firstborn son may marry; the others are pushed out or wed in secret. Families separated, to fit a rule, by humans, against humans.”

“England is kinder to Jews. We have chances,” she said.

“But even England’s laws keep us from the universities. We can’t own land. Guilds shut their doors. A Jewish merchant’s lease is a favor, not a right.”

But I want a lease for my bakery. I want it and won’t let myself have Sander unless I can be independent.

She needed it the way she needed air—her name on a door that can’t be taken, coin that was hers if she had to run again. Without those things, she’d be just what she was in Strasbourg: a girl who depended on her father’s roof and her mother’s kitchen, who believed in promises that burned the night the mob came.

I survived because I was small enough to hide and young enough that no one thought I mattered. I won’t be her again—the one who waits for men to decide if she’s allowed to live.

She wanted Sander more than she’d ever wanted anything. But she wouldn’t let herself have him unless she could stand alone first, because if she leaned on him and he fell—or she did—they’d both go down.

I learned that in ash and blood.

Before Rosine found the words to carry on, Sander inhaled to speak. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon writes different rules,” he said. “Wages for work. Locks that hold. A future if we earn it. That’s why I stepped in—so you don’t become a story for men who don’t know your worth.”

Steam lifted between them. She drew a steady breath. “Then be with me,” she said. “Guard the path, not the view.”

“With you,” he answered.

“So why shield me from those men with shutters?”

“Because you are not meant to be a spectacle for men who do not know your worth.”

Do not melt.

She melted.

Her jaw lifted. “And yet you barred me from the sight I wanted most. You.” Her voice stayed level. The steadiness surprised her. “You shut the world. That felt—” She searched for the word and found it in the old anger that rose whenever doors closed and men called it care. “I felt small.”

He furrowed his brow. “I’m sorry. I only wanted you unhurt,” he said at last. “I did not want you unseen.”

The contradiction cut clean through her. The heat behind her ribs changed shape, and her mouth felt… no, her lips were swollen, and she licked them. I don’t know what to do about this. Thus, she reached for the bun and tore it open. Crumbs marked her fingers. She dunked; the crust gave way. Sweetness rose, familiar and safe, and she felt the foolish sting of tears all the same.