Two weeks passed.
Emma fell into a routine. Mornings with Nicholas, training on the cliffs, breakfast in the kitchen, hours of conversation that ranged from business to philosophy to the kind of trivial nonsense that made her forget he was dangerous.
Afternoons alone, exploring the estate, reading in the library, learning to shoot in the underground range that Nicholas had built beneath the house.
Evenings together, eating dinner at the long table, watching the sunset from the balcony, dancing in the living room to music neither of them had chosen.
He didn't touch her. Not the way she wanted. But he was always there, a hand on her back, a brush of fingers when he handed her a glass of wine, a kiss on her forehead before bed that made her heart ache.
He's waiting, she realized. Waiting for me to make the first move. Waiting for me to trust him.
But trust was hard. Trust was dangerous. Trust had gotten her killed in another life.
On the fifteenth night, she found him in the library, staring at the paintings again.
"Can't sleep?" she asked.
"Never could." He didn't turn around. "You?"
"Bad dreams."
"What about?"
Emma walked to stand beside him. She looked at the painting of Celeste, at her own face, frozen in oil and memory.
"Drowning," she said.
Nicholas's jaw tightened. "I have those too."
"The same dream?"
"Different details. Same ending." He finally looked at her. "I'm always too late. Always reaching for her hand. Always watching her disappear."
Emma's throat tightened. "What if I told you she didn't disappear?"
"What do you mean?"
She hesitated. This was the moment, the moment she could tell him the truth. About Celeste. About rebirth. About the woman standing in front of him.
But she wasn't ready. Not yet.
"I mean," she said carefully, "that she's still with you. In here." She touched his chest, over his heart. "And she always will be."
Nicholas covered her hand with his.
"Thank you," he said.
"For what?"
"For being here. For not running." He paused. "For looking at me like I'm not a monster."
Emma stood on her toes and kissed his cheek… soft, brief, almost chaste.
"You're not a monster, Nicholas. You're just a man who's been hurt."
She walked out of the library, her heart pounding, her skin tingling where she had touched him.
Behind her, Nicholas stood alone with the paintings and the fire and the ghost of a woman who had come back to him in a different body.
He just didn't know it yet.