Healing
Asoft shake stirred Luna from sleep, releasing her from the clutches of a nightmare where faces familiar and unknown haunted her. She blinked, dried tears making her lashes stick slightly.
Damien knelt beside her, his hand on her shoulder. He’d dressed in the clothes they’d picked up from Hazelwood; a dark shirt comfortably hugged his shoulders, but the pants didn’t quite fit his long legs, riding up slightly above his ankles. His expression was gentle, even in the dark: brows slightly lifted, the tension gone from his jaw, and a faint warmth in his eyes.
He seemed so steady, so solid—everything she wasn’t. She wanted to fall into that, to forget, or at least be distracted from the weight of everything she’d lost. Maybe clinging to him was wrong, but he was right here.
Groggily, she yawned and reached for him. “It’s still dark.” Her fingers curled around his wrist, tugging slightly. Just enough to bring him back into her space, where warmth could mean something more.
But Damien pulled away; it wasn’t rough, nor cruel, yet it was enough of a choice to allow cold air in his place, lingering between them.
She blinked back her confusion. He’d spent the night holding her, comforting her as she relived the trauma of the last few days—twisted and warped in the torturous way bad dreams liked to play. Why was he acting so distant now? It wasn’t like being in each other’s arms was awkward anymore.
Unless it was for him—and he just hadn’t said so.
A pit formed in her stomach.
Had he been acting on pity? Politeness? A gentleman’s sense of duty? After all, he hadn’t tried to kiss her, despite his earlier comment of regretting not doing so . . . not even once.
Maybe he was right to hold back.
She should be devastated, consumed with thoughts about her family and the kingdom she used to call home, not of reaching for the first warm body that made her feel safe. Not looking at him like she was starving and he was the only thing left in the cupboards to eat.
Shame tinged her cheeks red, but she didn’t pull back from it; she’d deal with the guilt later.
“You’re so confusing,” she murmured as she lowered her hand and sat up.
Damien rose, unbothered by her comment, and brushed the dirt from his hands. “We should keep moving.” His eyes were on the treeline, to the shadows beyond. “Get as much distance between us and Hazelwood as possible.”
She stared at her lap, trying to swallow the ache that clawed up her throat. “Right.” She sat up straighter, keeping her voice even. “Wouldn’t want to run into old friends.”
He passed her a piece of bread, and she took it with numb fingers, not looking at him; rejection silenced the hunger gnawing at her insides.
She didn’t speak until they were riding. Pickles trotted steady beneath her, the forest pressing close around them as they followed a creek upstream. The trees were thick, the air cool and quiet, broken only by the rippling water and the wind weaving through the branches. Damien rode ahead, and the space between them seemed intentional now.
Staring at his back, her fingers tightened on the reins and she called out nervously, “Damien.”
He slowed, turning slightly in his saddle. “Hmm?”
“Why . . . Why do you do that?”
He brought Barley to a stop, but he didn’t look back at her, not right away. When he did, his eyes weren’t cold, just . . . tired.
“You’re upset,” he said quietly.
“I don’t understand,” she corrected. “You comfort me throughout the night. Risk your life for me, even. But when I try to get close to you—really close—you act like I’ve done something wrong.”
His jaw flexed. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“Then what is it?”
He exhaled slowly, his gaze flicking to the trees. “Do we really have to do this?”
She swallowed hard but didn’t answer. Silence his only encouragement to go on.
“I don’t want to be another cage for you,” he began. “I’ve seen your life. How sheltered you’ve been. I’m not . . . I’m not going to be . . .”
The unsaid words hung in the silence, knotting her insides. “Is that what you think this is?”
