Concern.
“Are you alright?” His voice was hoarse. “I'm sorry. I should’ve noticed sooner.”
Evelyne took a slow breath, willing her heartbeat to steady.
“I'm all right. It's just a lot.”
Alaric nodded, his gaze searching her face, lingering on the way her chest rose and fell, on the slight tremor in her fingers where they still rested against his chest.
“We can slow down,” he continued. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“No… I’m fine,” Evelyne took another breath, forcing steel into her voice. “Please continue. We have to consummate the marriage.”
The words felt foreign in her mouth, like something learned rather than lived. The warmth in his eyes cooled, his browsdrawing slightly inward, as if her words had cut more deeply than she'd intended.
“We don’t have to—”
“Weneedto,” she cut in, her breathing heavy.
She knew immediately she had gone too far.
The change in him was instant. His expression didn’t twist in anger or recoil in offense. It just… stilled. The light in his eyes dimmed.
“Evelyne…”
Just hearing him speaking her name in that voice made something twist inside her.
She crossed her arms, as if that would keep all the broken parts of her from spilling out. “This is our duty,” she pressed, her tone sharper now. “And without it, our marriage is not consummated—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “I’m not shying away from it. But I had hoped…” He broke off, exhaling, dragging a hand through his hair in a way that made him look younger.
“I want this to feel like it’s yours,” Alaric said, voice low with intent. “Every part of it. Your pace, your choice.” He studied her face, searching for the answer in her eyes.
She bit the inside of her cheek and looked away. Wanting something meant admitting she wanted it. Duty was easier. Duty was clean. Duty asked nothing but obedience and offered cover in return. It didn’t require her toknow.
She crossed her arms tighter around herself, because she didn’t know what else to do with them. Her fingertips brushed the edge of her nightgown, her skin still tingled where he had touched her.
“It's not that I don’t want—” she stopped herself, jaw tightening. “I just don’t knowwhatI want. And that makes it... messy. And messy isn’t a luxury I’m allowed. Not in public. Not in private. Not even in my own head.”
“Then I’ll stay where you are. Not behind you, not ahead. Just here.”
She shook her head, barely, her throat felt tight again.
“This is unrealistic. You're a man. I'm your wife. Eventually, you're going to want something more than long, patient stares, sharp banter, and philosophical restraint.”
Her gaze dropped for a moment—to the bed, the carefully drawn curtains, the flicker of candlelight across polished wood and silk. The setting was a scene drawn from a story she’d been told since she was old enough to braid her own hair.
“Say something,” she urged at last.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering his words. That infuriating calm again. She wanted to shake it off him. Or wrap herself in it.
“You’re scared,” he remarked.
She flinched. Her instinct was to snap back.No, I’m not. I don’t get scared.
But that wasn’t honesty, and she was already exhausted from pretending.
He moved toward her, calm as ever. That careful softness in his steps made her tense, instinctively bracing for something she couldn’t name.
