He inhaled through his nose. “If you give yourself to me tonight, because you think you must, then I am no better than the men who tore your life apart.”
She trembled.
Alaric simply held her even tighter. She pressed her eyes closed, letting the world narrow to the warmth of his chest against her, the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath her ear, the silent, unbearable truth of being allowed—just this once—not to be strong.
Just for a moment.
Just for a breath.
Just as she began to lean, he gently stepped back.
The absence hit harder than she expected. The air touched her skin like a ghost. She hadn’t known she wanted to be held until the warmth disappeared.
He reached for her robe and draped it over her shoulders. And then he leaned in to press a single kiss to her forehead.
Her breath caught. It landed somewhere where the ache lived. Where the fear still coiled tight. Her mind was doing laps around itself, darting between duty, fear, expectation, and a hundred things she hadn’t been taught how to name.
She glanced down and immediately regretted it. The robe was back on, but underneath she was still in nothing but her nightgown, and now that they weren’t moving toward anything, it felt ridiculous. Like standing on a stage after the curtain had dropped.
“So,” she stammered, sniffing. “What... are we supposed to do now?”
Alaric looked around the room. Then, as if the answer had been waiting all along, he crossed to the mantle of the fireplace, picked up the wine carafe and two glasses, and set them down gently on the rug near the hearth. He pulled a few pillows from the bed and arranged them in a loose circle near the fire.
Then he turned back to her and held out a hand.
“We talk,” he said.
Evelyne stared at him for a beat, and then she let him lead her. As they walked, she wondered if it was possible to be disarmed by something as simple as someone not asking for more.
Chapter 63
So they talked.
For a long time, actually. They sat on a rug, the fire popping beside them, casting gold and shadow over her cheekbones. The wine helped, she had abandoned formality somewhere around her third sip. And so did the silence, which came and went without awkwardness.
They spoke about Varantian customs that made her roll her eyes, and Edrathen traditions that made him laugh. About council meetings he barely remembered and tutors she despised. About books, maps, futures that might or might not happen.
They didn’t speak abouttonight. Not directly. The present was too fragile, too close. Best to leave it untouched.
He watched her from the corner of his eye as she poured another glass. She moved more comfortably now, less like she was bracing for impact and more like she was figuring out what shape her own skin took when no one was watching.
Alaric leaned back on one elbow. The fire had burned lower, but neither of them had moved to stoke it.
“You’re staring,” she remarked, not looking at him.
“I am,” he replied. “Undeniably. Unapologetically.”
She gave him a look. Her signature. “Is this the part where you make another over-dramatic declaration?”
“Only if you're in the mood for something breathtakingly poetic and just a little self-indulgent.”
“I’m not.”
“Pity.” He took a sip of wine, “That means I’ll have to improvise.”
She rolled her eyes, but it lacked heat. If anything, she seemed tired. That kind of tiredness that settles in after too muchholding yourself together for too long. He recognized it because he knew it himself.
“Do you think it’s possible,” she began, eyes fixed on the hearth, “to want something and not know what you’d do with it once you had it?”
