The chapel sighs around us—a stone exhale. The dust drifts. The wind outside presses vines against windows. Light falls in irregular shards through broken glass. The old walls hum faintly with memory. The ruin is our witness, hollow but alive.
I let her lean against me, her head resting on my shoulder. The weight of the past feels lighter, at least for now.
Outside, birdcalls start. A breeze stirs leaves in the courtyard. Somewhere distant a crow caws. Morning reaches in through broken windows, casting color across our bodies, coloring stone and flesh with patterns of resilience.
I think of the beasts inside me — the oath, the rage, the promise I made to numb love so it wouldn’t destroy everything. But in this chapel, with her here, I remember what it meant to be human, what it means to risk everything for someone. The beast does not disappear, but right now it is quiet, listening.
She speaks then, barely audible. “I’m still staying.”
Her voice anchors me more than any creed. I lay a hand on the Seal against my chest, feel the heat there. I lean my head toward hers, letting silence stretch between us, sacred and dangerous both.
The lines have shifted. The seal burns a little brighter.
But so does what I feel.
14
KALEIGH
Dawn spills through broken shutters in slanted beams that strike the villa’s interior like fingers of light, stirring dust motes into lazy spirals. The old stone walls absorb that light, holding it for a moment before releasing it into shadowed corners where vines creep through cracks. Every surface is etched with age — plaster peeled, wood warped, tiles cracked under centuries of sun and wind — but in this softened glow they feel less ruin and more refuge.
I wake slowly, the weight of him beside me pressing gentle warmth into my ribs. His body, sculpted and tense, is curled close yet respectful of distance. The mattress between us sags where I slept; the blanket is tangled around my legs. I lie there a moment, breath shallow, listening to his even breathing, the hush of the villa waking: a branch tapping a jagged window frame, olive leaves rustling outside, the faint creak of wood settling in old houses. I haven’t felt safe like this in years.
When I shift, he stirs. His eyes open, gold flickering then damping like embers fading at twilight. He lifts himself up on one elbow and watches me, expression taut — wariness and something softer interlaced. I push myself up too, sitting cross-legged, brushing stray curls from my face. The cold stone beneath me feels sharp, but I welcome the bite of it — grounding, real.
“Morning,” I say, voice quiet, careful not to shatter this fragile space.
“Morning,” he answers, tone scratchy, as though reclaiming words he’s used too seldom.
I move to the little table near the window — a stone slab once ornamental, now rough from age — and pour water from a chipped jug. The water sloshes in my cup and breathes faint echoes against the chipped metal rim. I bring it back and press it to his lips; he drinks with an intensity as though he’s tasting safety in liquid form.
We commence the rituals of coexisting. He eats a stale slice of bread I pulled aside earlier. He doesn’t speak while chewing; his eyes scan walls, windows, corners, ever vigilant. I pass him water again, fingertips brushing when I extend the cup. He doesn’t recoil. He lets the touch linger.
Later, I find his things strewn in a corner: folders, battered paper, psychiatric assessments, old transcripts, confidential seals, all artifacts of a life meant to be hidden. The chill of documentation unravels something inside me: the realization of how exposed he’s been, how vulnerable beyond the body he shows.
I carry the papers outside to the courtyard. The sun is higher now, gilding vines and cracking stone. Weeds push through mortar between tiles. A dry fountain stands sentinel, nothing but bone and stone. I spread the papers across a large flat stone, stack them carelessly, then strike a match. Flame catches the edges first, ink curling, paper whispering as it burns. The smell of scorched ink and old memory fills the air. Ash lifts in a haze of smoke, drifting upward to tangled branches. I remain untilthe fire consumes every scrap—until nothing is left but gray dust and wind.
When I return, the soft echo of my steps is swallowed by corridors. He meets me in the doorway of the chamber. His silhouette framed by light, dust motes swirling at his feet. His gaze slides over me, hands still faintly sun-smelled, dress torn a little at the hem, hair loose.
“You burned them,” he says, voice low and raw: accusation, fear, something else.
“Yes,” I say. “I couldn’t let them speak against you when words meant death.” My voice holds steadiness I don’t always feel.
He steps closer. I see the muscles in his neck, the tension in his shoulders as though he braces against betrayal or wind. He reaches out, brushing ash from my cheek, fingers smudged but gentle.
“Brave,” he whispers, but there’s an ache behind it.
“Necessary,” I reply. No hesitation.
He searches my eyes. Outside, wind rattles shutters; shards of glass tinkle like distant bells. Olive limbs press against the window, leaves whisper. The villa creaks like an old beast waking.
He reaches forward, pulling me into him. I fold into his arms, letting his chest cushion me. His breath warms my ear:
“You could’ve positioned me against you,” he murmurs. “Exposed my darkness. They would’ve believed you.”
I press my lips to his shoulder. “I believe you,” I say, pure, honest.
He tenses, then relaxes, wrapping his arm around me. I feel the shift in him — not the bull, just the man leaning into a promise. Outside, the chapel windows across the courtyard catch sunrise and gleam. The earth smells of dust, stone, olive, warm rain to come. This moment tastes like possibility.
