Reyne would return the kiss when he pressed his lips to hers, almost virginal in her hesitation because she'd have forgotten the sensation. In her husband's arms, slowly her tears would stop. She’d take a breath, release it shakily. As hurtful as their relationship had become, Oliver had never lied. The only untruth he'd shared with her was an untruth he'd been told himself—he hadn't known, and there was no way Reyne could have held him accountable for being lied to. So she didn't hold him accountable for it, and she believed his word when he spoke. If he said he'd stop, that he'd do better, she'd believe him. And believe him entirely. Reason told her to slow down, to calm the racing of her heart, to succumb to the weariness in her bones and simply go back to sleep. But everything else—her worry, her fear, her loneliness—drove her to nuzzle beneath Oliver’s jaw, to relish the warmth of his embrace, to indulge in his scent and the closeness she'd been starved of for so long. She’d place a kiss at his pulse; place a kiss on his neck, shift so she could run a hand down his flank. Tender touches, because he was no longer a ghost of a man that haunted her home, but her husband. And she'd want to be his wife.