“You have shamed us all,” Henry continued, voice rising. “The union, our agreement—it is sullied because of your folly. And thatthing… he will pay. I will hunt him down, and he will not survive this night. And then we will see how long your defiance lasts. Perhaps when his head is mounted on our wall you will remember what these acts earn you.”
Her sobs choked her. “Henry… please! I—I will marry you! I swear it! I will be the perfect wife. I willobey. I will never speak against you or your wishes again! C-children! I will bare them. I will do all as you wish.”
Henry’s eyes narrowed. He did not move, did not speak—yet the weight of his presence was heavy.
“I will marry you—no! I will serve you as a wife aught to do,” she repeated, voice shaking, tears staining the floor beneath her. “If you grant him his freedom—freedom from you, from persecution. Grant this, and I will marry you. I will have children. I will raise them quietly. I will never defy you again. I swear it!”
Her voice rang against the walls, her ears humming with desperation.
Henry’s fists tightened. His jaw rigid. His gaze flickered to her, brimming with controlled, furious rage.
Henry’s gaze softened slightly, though the edge of steel never left his eyes. He took a measured step closer, the weight of his presence filling the room as he grabbed her face, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Very well,” he said. “You will marry me. But hear me clearly, Penelope—the cost of your defiance is not erased.”
Penelope’s knees trembled beneath her, relief washing through her in shivering waves. “Thank you… thank you, Henry,” she whispered. “Thank you for you forgiveness—”
“Do not mistake my agreement for forgiveness. He walks free tonight because I choose it—but you, Penelope, will not forget this. Step out of line once, and there will be no second chance. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, Henry,” she breathed, swallowing hard, tears threatening again. “I… I understand.”
“Good.You will keep your promise. You will be a wife worthy of your station. But the next time I catch so much as a whisper of you offering even a glance towards a monster, the consequences will fall not just on him, but on you as well.”
Her chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven breaths, relief and fear mingling so tightly that she felt dizzy. Yet she still thought of Elias even as she bowed her head in acquiescence to Henry’s warning.
Penelope movedthrough her morning in a hollow sort of calm. Her hands were steady, her movements precise, but inside she felt as though all warmth had been drained from her chest. Every brush of silk against her skin, every mirror she faced, every decorative jewel placed on her finger sparked nothing. No fear, yes, but no joy—no hope, either. She felt as though every speck of who she was had been carved out of her piece by piece, until there was nothing but flesh left behind. A husk.
She had spent much of the night waiting. Writing. Her final requiem to him. Because now, she would submit. It was her duty. She knew that now. She understood the cost of ever thinking that she could be more than a wife.
Her father’s voice echoed from the hallway. “Are you ready, Penelope?”
She straightened her spine, forcing a composure she did not feel. “Yes, Father,” she repeated like a record left to spin long after the music had stopped.
“You will see in time, that this is for the best,” her father said as she stepped through the door, making her way into the halls.
“Yes, father.”
His features pinched together, exaggerating his wrinkles as he held her hand in his. “I am doing this because I love you, Penelope. I only want what is best for you, you know that right?”
“Yes, father.”
20
ELIAS
His chest caved in on itself under the weight of his sorrow. He wanted her—wanted Penelope with a force that felt almost sacrilegious in its intensity. To accept her as she was, to covet every fragment of her being, to claim her entirely—not just in secret, not just in stolen moments when the town slept, but openly, in the clarity of day, without shame, without fear.
And yet, even as desire coiled inside him, strangling him like a noose, a question gnawed at his core. Did he not deserve a love that was proud? A love that would call out to him openly, without shame or hesitation? Or was he fated to grasp at fleeting moments the cover of darkness allowed, to watch her from the shadows while she lived the life others had built for her—while she obeyed rules he could never abide, while she bound herself in chains of duty? To only visit her in the stolen moments they could find behind closed doors?
The thought twisted through him, and with it, a bitter ache of longing that made the bed beneath him feel like a coffin. Each breath he drew was shallow and ragged, as if the very air had grown too thick to breathe.
To her, he was sin. He was the serpent that tempted her away from all that was holy. But to him? To him she was everything. She was the garden itself.
If he had only heard her father, if he had not seen the way she froze—choked on her own shame, he might have gladly loved her in silence for all of his endless days. Yet, he did not. In that moment, all he could hear—all he could sense, was her. Her gentleness. Her breath. Her scent. The melody of her heart. If he had not been so enthralled, so consumed by her, he might have lived this lie just a little longer.
The fox curled closer to him on the bed, his wet nose poking Elias’ cheek as he sniffed as though he could scent the injury upon his heart.
“It’s alright,” he breathed, though the words came out broken. He pressed his arm across his eyes, trying to shield himself from the light, from the world, from the knowledge that he could not simply reach out and take her. “I deserve a kind love… I am fine…”
The lie twisted in his throat. Warmness ran unchecked down his cheeks, soaking the sheets beneath him, and he choked on a soundless sob. “I… I am not okay.”
