Without a word, he reached over and pulled me into a hug, his strong arms enveloping me in warmth and comfort. I buried my face against his chest, breathing in his familiar scent.
“I’ve got you,” he murmured against my hair as a sob I hadn’t realized was building escaped me. He held me tighter, one large hand moving in slow, comforting circles on my back, until I finally relaxed against him. “Now let’s go home.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The days that followed settled into a new pattern—one that chafed at me even as I reluctantly adapted to it. Rion no longer drove me to work, instead picking me up a block away from the library at the end of each day. We spent our evenings together, either at his labyrinthine home or my apartment, cooking dinner and talking for hours, our physical relationship deepening alongside our emotional connection.
But in public, things were different. Rion kept his distance, his usual reserved demeanor amplified to the point of near-invisibility. He declined invitations to join me for coffee at the local café or browse the farmer’s market on Saturday morning. When we did go out together, he chose quiet, out-of-the-way places where we were less likely to be seen.
The worst part was that I could see how much it cost him, this careful stepping back. Though he never complained, I noticed the way his shoulders tensed when we were in public spaces, how his eyes constantly scanned for potential threats or judgment. He’d lived this way for so long that it had becomesecond nature—a fact that broke my heart a little more each time I witnessed it.
On Thursday evening, a week after Mrs. Wilson’s return, I finally reached my breaking point. We were at Rion’s house, seated on the comfortable couch in his living room, a documentary about ancient architecture playing on the television. Rion was engrossed, occasionally pointing out inaccuracies in the narrator’s explanation of structural principles, while I was lost in my own thoughts.
“We should go to the Spring Festival this weekend,” I said suddenly.
Rion glanced at me, his attention shifting immediately from the TV to my face. “The Spring Festival?”
“It’s this annual thing Willowbrook does,” I explained. “Craft booths, food vendors, live music. It’s actually fun, in a small-town kind of way.”
He was already shaking his head before I finished speaking. “That doesn’t sound like a good idea, Clara.”
“Why not?”
“You know why not.” He sighed, reaching for the remote to pause the documentary. “It’s exactly the kind of crowded public event we’ve been avoiding.”
“That’s precisely why we should go,” I argued. “I’m tired of hiding, Rion. Tired of pretending we’re not together when we’re in public.”
“We’re not hiding,” he countered. “We’re being discreet.”
“It feels like hiding to me.” I pulled away slightly, frustration bubbling up. “And I hate it.”
His expression softened. “I know you do. But we agreed?—”
“No, you and Mrs. Wilson agreed,” I cut in. “I just went along with it because I didn’t want to upset you.”
Hurt flashed across his face. “Is that really what you think? That I’m doing this because I want to?”
“No,” I admitted, immediately regretting my sharp tone. “I know you’re not. But it doesn’t make it any easier to accept.”
He reached for my hand, his large fingers curling gently around mine. “What would you have me do, Clara? Walk into a crowded festival and pretend that people aren’t staring? That they aren’t whispering behind their hands? That some of them aren’t outright hostile?”
“Yes,” I said firmly. “Because you have every right to be there. And so do we, together.”
He was quiet for a long moment, his eyes troubled. “It’s not that simple.”
“It could be,” I insisted. “If we make it that way.”
“You’re being naive,” he said, his voice gentle but firm.
The accusation stung. “Maybe I am. But at least I’m willing to try.”
Rion released my hand and stood up, pacing to the window that overlooked his carefully designed garden. The setting sun cast his profile in sharp relief, highlighting the proud curve of his horns and the strong line of his jaw.
“I’ve tried before,” he said finally, his voice so low I had to strain to hear it. “It didn’t end well.”
I rose and went to him, laying a hand on his tense back. “Tell me.”
He was silent for so long I thought he might refuse. Then he sighed, a deep, weary sound that seemed to come from somewhere beneath his ribs.
