His finger caresses the golden band on mine, tracing its smooth surface as though it were the most precious thing in the world. The pad of his thumb brushes over the matching golden thread beneath my skin, and I feel the connection between us hum with recognition.
I try to shield my emotions, to bury any thoughts of where I’ve been and what has happened. Try to keepthemfrom bleeding through our Bond. Even the smallest crack could let something slip through—a flash of pain, a whisper of desire, a shadow of what I endured. I need to protect him from my truth for now, to spare him the hurt of knowing what pieces of myself I left behind. With them.
The unspoken question hangs in the air between us.
Did you ever stop loving me?
It demands an answer, and the reply comes as easy as breathing.
“I never stopped.”
“I never doubted.” He smiles.
He leans down slowly, his hand brushing my hair from my face, then stroking my cheek with the utmost care. His soft lips brush mine, a whisper of a kiss.
“Unless you want to laze about in bed for another two days, would you join me for a walk?” He chuckles, resting his forehead against mine, his warm breath dusting my face.
“Sure. I’ll just need to get dressed.”
I pause, waiting for him to leave.
“You’re my wife, Alaya. Remember, I’ve seen you in a lot less.” He smirks.
I blush. He puts out his hand, helping me rise from the bed, and I’m grateful for it—my legs give way when I stand. His arm comes up and encircles my waist, steadying me. My skin tingles under the flimsy nightdress, his touch warm and tender.
“I got you.”
“Thanks.” Once I get my balance, I walk to the bathroom, wash, then cross to my dressing room.
I sigh with pleasure.
Clothes. My clothes.
I pick out a pretty blue summer dress. In the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I see Kiernan walk in behind me, his eyes heavy with desire, gripping the hem of my nightdress.
This feels so intimate and natural. A wave of sadness washes over me—these are the little moments we should have shared after our marriage, the ones we never got.
His fingers drift lightly over my skin as he pulls the nightdress up and over my head.
He hisses through clenched teeth. The anger that radiates from him hits me so hard I stumble.
When I look at his reflection in the mirror, his face has gone pale. He’s trembling against my back. I see what his eyes have found. Fading bruises—some small, some bigger than my fist—paint a pattern over my entire body. Red fingermarks still circling my neck.
“Please don’t ask,” I whisper.
Both hands clench into fists, knuckles white. His jaw works. Then, after what feels like an eternity, he sighs—a long, shuddering exhale. He leans down slowly, carefully, and his nose nuzzles my neck with infinite gentleness.
“I won’t. But one day you will tell me, and I will listen,” he whispers back.
He helps me put on the dress, and once I find some shoes to wear, I’m ready to go.
Just as we’re about to leave, something on the bedside table catches my eye.
I freeze.
“Where did this come from?” I pick up the wooden object, my hand trembling.
“It was in the pocket of the trousers you were wearing when you arrived. Figured you might want to keep it.”
