“Can’t even see the front gate,” Mary mutters as she peeks through the slit between the heavy velvet curtains. “We’re socked in. No one’s coming or going ‘til it lets up.”
I nod, lips pressed tight against the rim of my mug, the steam fogging my glasses briefly before I pull them off and rub the lenses clean on the edge of my sweater. The quiet between us stretches long. We’ve had entire mornings like this since I arrived—spoken in half-glances and nods, punctuated only by the rhythm of kitchen knives or the soft scuff of boots on stone floors.
But today feels different. Closer. The kind of stillness that hums in your skin, like the air before a summer thunderstorm or the ache in your chest before a tear slips free.
Mary turns to me slowly. “You may want to keep near the east wing today,” she says. “Darius tends to go a little… restive when he’s caged in.”
Restive. That’s one way to put it.
I remember the sharp edges of his gaze, the growl in his voice when we passed each other in the hall yesterday. He hadn’t said a word, but I could feel the tension radiating off him like heat off a stovetop—barely contained, barely polite.
Still, something in me resists the idea of avoidance. Maybe it’s foolishness. Maybe it’s the nurse in me, hardwired to walk toward pain instead of away from it.
Or maybe it’s that quiet little ache that’s started to take up residence in my chest every time I think about the man behind the monster.
The east wing feels colder than the rest of the house, despite the way the radiators clang and hiss like they’re fighting the freeze. I carry a tray—soup, bread, and extra honey, because I noticed he didn’t flinch at sweet things the way he does at everything else.
I find him in the library, slouched in one of the worn leather chairs near the hearth, bare feet propped on a stool, a threadbare blanket tossed over his legs like someone else insisted on it. His eyes are half-lidded, dark lashes casting shadows against sharp cheekbones, but I can tell he’s not sleeping. His shoulders are too tense, hands curled into fists in his lap.
“I brought you something,” I say softly, not wanting to startle him. “Mary said you hadn’t eaten yet.”
His eyes open slowly, gaze flicking from the tray to my face. There’s a war behind those eyes, one I can’t name, but I know the look of someone who hasn’t known rest in a long time.
“Didn’t ask for anything,” he says, voice rough like gravel and smoke.
I shrug gently. “You don’t have to ask. It’s what I’m here for.”
For a long moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. Just watches me like I’m some puzzle piece that doesn’t fit, but he can’t bring himself to throw away. He shifts forward, takes the tray with a nod that feels more like surrender than gratitude.
“Thanks,” he mutters, almost under his breath.
I sit in the chair across from him, tucking my legs beneath me, my own mug clutched between both hands. The fire crackles softly between us, casting gold against the worn wood and deep shadows.
“You don’t have to stay,” he says, not looking at me.
“I know.”
Another pause. Another breath.
“But you are.”
I glance up, catch the brief flicker of surprise in his expression, the vulnerability he’s not used to showing. “You seem like you could use company. Even if you don’t want it.”
He huffs something like a laugh, low and self-deprecating. “You always this stubborn?”
“Only when it matters.”
We lapse into silence again, but it’s different now. Less brittle. Like maybe the air between us is warming, softening.
I sip my tea, letting the heat curl through me. After a while, he sets the tray down, the spoon untouched.
“I get these dreams,” he says suddenly, voice barely louder than the fire’s hiss. “Been getting them more and more. Since the snow came.”
I don’t speak. Just watch him.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the fire, like if he looks at me, the words will catch in his throat.
“They’re not memories,” he goes on. “Not really. Not all of them. Some are... twisted. Bent. Old wounds wearing new faces.”
