So I close the distance and wrap my arms around him.
At first, he stiffens—surprised, almost startled by the contact—but then his strength gives way all at once. I guide him down with me, slow and careful, until we are on the floor together. He sinks as though the weight of him has finally become too much to bear.
I settle behind him, easing his head into my lap. His hair is damp with sweat, curls sticking to his temples. I run my fingers through it again and again, soothing, grounding, counting his breaths until they begin to slow.
There is a long stretch of silence, broken only by the sound of the fire and his uneven breathing.
“I’m here,” I murmur. “You’re not alone.”
His shoulders rise and fall beneath my hands. Gradually, the tension leaves him, spilling out onto the stone floor.
“I am not her,” I say quietly, when I feel him listening again. “I am not fragile and soft mannered.”
My fingers trace slow patterns at his scalp. “I can withstand a little storm. And when you keep me away from everything…when you shut me out…” I swallow. “That hurts more than any whisper ever could.”
He exhales, long and heavy.
“I want to stand beside you,” I continue. “Not behind closed doors. Not hidden away. I need to see the court, to understand it. To be part of it.”
For a moment, I think he will refuse. I feel the hesitation in the way his jaw tightens, the way his hand curls into the fabric of my skirt.
Then he nods, once.
“Very well,” he says, voice low and raw. “But if it turns on you—if it harms you—I will end it. Immediately.”
“I understand.”
“There will be conditions.”
“I know.”
I shift slightly, the movement making him glance up at me at last. “I want my former ladies returned,” I add. “The ones who traveled with us. And I need Aileen. At my side. I need someone who understands this place.”
His gaze searches my face, measuring. Then he nods again.
“You shall have them.”
He reaches for me then, hands sliding to my waist, to the ties of my gown. His touch is reverent now, possessive in its care. “You give me peace,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead briefly to my stomach before rising. “Even when the world claws at me.”
His fingers begin their familiar work, unfastening, undressing.
“You are mine,” he whispers, as if it is a promise. “And I will keep you safe.”
I let him believe that this is what safety feels like.
* * *
Aileen returns without announcement.
I am in the solar when she is shown in, standing by the window with a book I have not been reading for some time. When I hear her name, I turn too quickly, my breath catching with sudden, foolish joy.
“Aileen.”
She curtsies perfectly, as she would for any other noble-born.
“My Queen,” she says, her voice smooth and carefully measured. “I trust you are well.”
The words land like cold water.
