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He was irresistible. She had sworn after Strasbourg that she would never depend on anyone, never bind her survival to another’s strength. To do so had cost her parents everything. And yet here was Sander, with that haunted steadiness, wanting her—she could see it in every rigid line of his body. If only he wanted her for herself, not just to protect.

If only it were truly me.

“We stand together, just like Mrs. Dove-Lyon said. If I trust you… will you trust me?” Rosine’s question was clumsy but burned with importance of the world as though asking it cost her more than she wanted him to know.

Sander swallowed visibly, his throat working. “Always,” he croaked. The answer sounded as if It had been dragged up from a place he’d kept locked for too long.

Her heart leapt—and faltered. Because trust was dangerous. She had trusted before. Strasbourg had taught her that protection promised by others could vanish in a night, and everything—everyone—she loved could be burned to ash. She had vowed never again to rest her safety on someone else’s strength.

And yet here she was, asking for it. Wanting him more than her independence.

“I have to warn you,” she whispered, the truth spilling before she could stop it. “I need you to hear what I mean,” she whispered. “Since Strasbourg I swore my life would never sit in someone else’s ledger. I can love you—but I must belong to myself while I choose you.”

His jaw tightened, the muscles shifting like stone under strain. “And I don’t want to fail anyone. Not you. Not Mrs. Dove-Lyon. I’ve lived too long with the weight of what happens when I’m not enough to protect those I love.”

“Why?”

“My distance isn’t doubt,” he said. “In the Pale, the night our street burned, I ran for the magistrate; the clerk told me to come back with a stamped paper in the morning. By morning my parents were gone. Since then I fear standing close and failing—giving a man like Nagy a way to reach you through me.”

Her breath caught at that—at the quiet pain beneath the words. The very thing that kept him apart from her was the same that drew her closer.

For a long moment, neither moved. The damp and cold London air pressed close around them.

Then he straightened, his voice low but fierce, cutting through the uncertainty.

“Not just fight, Rosine. Win. For the Lyon’s Den and for us. Because if Nagy tears this place apart, I have to go to Boston because there’s nothing safe from people like Nagy in Europe and you’ll have a shop here still. The choice will be yours entirely to stay or to go. If Nagy wins, he makes me go. I just hope he won’t tear us apart.”

The words slammed into her. Not a vow, not yet—but a glimpse of what it could become. His belief in her, in them, burned so hot it left no room for denial.

She wanted to look away. Instead, she lifted her chin and met that gaze head-on.

She’d spent years learning to survive. Now she wanted to fight back. It was daring the world to come for them and finding the strength to say, try. I won’t choose baking over you.

“Where are we going?” The question came like a logical intermission.

“To your bakery.”

As they walked on, she watched him from the corner of her eye. His hand stayed loose at his side, not reaching for hers but close enough that she felt the pull of it. Something had shifted between them—not in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office with its ledgers and strategy, but here, in the quiet alleys where no one was watching.

She’d spent so long measuring herself against what she could bake, what she could earn, what she could build alone. But walking beside him now, she wondered if standing together might be its own kind of strength.

He’d eaten her misshapen buns like they were treasures and matched her silence without mocking it. Now he was even leading her toward a door with her name on it in the future—not to cage her, but to set her free.

Something bound them now and it wasn’t obligation or duty any more.

And though he would never say it aloud, she could see it in the set of his shoulders, the careful way he kept pace with her stride: he didn’t want this to break.

“We’re almost there,” he said and offered his arm. She took it. And they continued their walk.

It wasn’t far, just a few minutes westward past shops that glowed with early sunlight and the murmur of shops preparing their shutters.

“This is one of the first streets in the borough to have gas lamps lit,” he said, gesturing toward the low, rounded posts. “I’d wager Mrs. Dove-Lyon chose it for that reason.”

“But you don’t bet, do you?”

“I only play chess. That’s not gambling—I trust my skills.” He paused, then added almost ruefully, “There’s always more to learn in chess. More positions to explore.”

His mouth twitched at his own awkwardness. She didn’t answer, and he realized—she wouldn’t make it easy for him. That, too, he admired.