He breaks off, running a hand through his hair, making the already disheveled strands stand in new directions. The gesture is so familiar it hurts. I've watched him do it a hundred times when he's frustrated or overwhelmed or trying to solve a problem that won't yield to logic.
"You have me," he finishes quietly. "If you want me. But only if you actually want me, Keira. Not because some document says you belong to me."
The words settle between us like stones dropping into still water. Ripples spreading outward, disturbing the careful distance I've been maintaining.
I can see the truth of what he's saying written across his face. The grief and exhaustion and raw honesty that he's never been good at hiding from me. He means it. Every word.
And that terrifies me more than the contract ever could.
Because if I believe him—if I let myself trust that he's different, that he actually sees me as a person worth choosing—then I'm vulnerable in ways I swore I'd never be again. I'm opening myself up to being hurt, to being disappointed, to discovering that even good intentions can turn poisonous when power dynamics get involved.
But standing here in the pre-dawn darkness, watching him come apart in front of me, I can't quite hold onto the anger that's been keeping me safe these past four days.
"I just need... time." The admission feels like peeling back armor, exposing soft flesh underneath. "I need time to process this. To figure out how to?—"
"I know." He cuts me off gently, his expression softening into something that looks almost like relief. "I've always given you time, haven't I? Since the day we met. Since the first conversation in the kitchen when you were so determined to keep me at arm's length."
A ghost of a smile touches his mouth, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it.
"I'll give you all the time you need," he continues. "Take weeks. Take months. Take however long it takes for you to feel safe again. I'm not going anywhere."
He pauses, and when he speaks again his voice drops lower, rougher.
"Just please... don't shut me out completely. Don't lock yourself away in that room and refuse to even speak to me. I can handle you being angry. I can handle you not trusting me yet. But I can't?—"
His voice cracks and he has to stop, has to take a breath and collect himself before finishing.
"I can't lose you too. Not after Daryn. I can't."
The confession breaks something inside me. Some last bit of resistance that's been holding firm against the pull I feel toward him.
Because he's right. He has always given me time. Has never pushed, never demanded, never used his position or his magic or his considerable presence to coerce me into anything. Even now, owning my contract, he's asking. Giving me choice where the law says I have none.
And I've been shutting him out. Punishing him for Daryn's decision. Making him suffer alone with his grief because I was too afraid to trust what we'd been building.
Slowly—so slowly I can feel the weight of the decision in every muscle—I nod.
"Okay," I whisper. "I won't... I won't shut you out."
17
VALAS
Two days.
Two days of Amisra clinging to me like I'm the only solid thing left in her world. Two days of her small hand gripping my sleeve, her face pressed against my side, her silence so profound it makes my chest ache.
She hasn't spoken more than a handful of words over those two days. Just nods or shakes of her head when I ask if she's hungry, if she wants to rest, if she needs anything. The light that used to shine from her—that half-elven brightness Daryn loved so much—has dimmed to nearly nothing.
I carry her from room to room because she won't let me put her down. Make her favorite foods that she picks at without eating. Tell her stories that receive no response beyond the occasional tightening of her fingers in my shirt.
And everywhere we go, I see him.
Daryn's favorite chair by the window where he used to read to Amisra before bed. The desk in his study where he'd spread out maps and laugh at my terrible battle tactics during our strategy games. The garden path where he'd walk on his gooddays, determined to prove the illness hadn't beaten him yet even when we all knew it had.
The house is saturated with his presence. With memories that cut like glass every time I turn a corner and expect to see him standing there with that sardonic smile, ready to make some quip about my work ethic or my terrible jokes or the way I'm handling this whole mess.
It's crushing me. Grinding me down with the weight of grief and responsibility and the desperate need to fix something when there's nothing left to fix.
