Page 32 of Prince of Wrath

“I know she has agency.”

“Do you?” I glare at him, and he accepts it without flinching, which is better than most men would ever manage. “You described her as reserved and shy,” he clarifies, “but you also described a woman who worked nights to fund her studies, survived mistreatment at home, adapted to a world that did not always meet her language, and endured captivity. That does not sound like someone incapable of discernment.” The words sit between us, too accurate to dismiss.

“She is too good for me,” I let out in a breath. Ella is a force of nature. A silent one, yes, but damn it, there is not an inch of her I do not admire.

“Let’s look at it from another angle.” Elias’s voice remains mild. “Perhaps the question is not only about her agency. Perhaps it is also about trust.” My throat tightens.

“Everything she went through happened because of me.”

“Did you hurt her?”

“No.”

“Did you kidnap her?”

“No.”

“Did you ask Cole Vodianov or her stepmother to exploit her connection to you?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps we can make room for responsibility without turning it into self-condemnation.” I look away as he gives me a moment. “Excessive guilt never helped anyone,” he adds. “If you make yourself the sole cause of her suffering, you erase the choices of the people who harmed her and reduce Ella to someone without judgment of her own. I understand the instinct, but you’re a man of facts, Tristan, and right now you’re letting your imagination run the room.” I hate that. Mostly because some part of me already knows it.

“But she should blame me,” I argue.

“Has she?”

“No,” I mutter. Rain keeps hitting the windows in soft, relentless strokes. I look down at my hands, thick, dry patches staring back at me from excessive training. “I…I stopped signing to her.” Elias hums, the way someone does when they recognize the root of the issue.

“Since the rescue?”

“Yes.”

“Does she know why?”

“I don’t even know why.” I clear my throat, hearing a siren far down in the street. “Every time I try to sign, I see her on the concrete floor, covered in blood.”

“When was the last time you signed to her before she was taken?”

“The night she was kidnapped.” My gaze shifts to the chessboard. “In my bedroom.”

Elias nods slowly. “That makes psychological sense, even if it doesn’t feel rational to you. Your body may have linked the sequence together.” He pauses, watching me with the careful focus of a man stepping over unstable ground. “It would make sense to avoid signing now, because your mind has connected it with the last moment you saw her before she was taken away. Avoidance often works that way. It protects you in the short term but hurts the relationship in the long term.”

“But-” I wince. “She-she needs me to sign.” He lifts one finger.

“She needs you to be honest.”

“She’s recovering. I can’t…”

“I understand,” he says, his face tilting slightly. “But honesty is not the same as handing her every unprocessed fear you have and asking her to carry it.” I arch a brow. Really? With both palms open and a slight wince, he corrects himself. “We all have unprocessed fears, Tristan. That’s part of the human experience. I’m not saying that you have more than anyone else. I’m saying that talking to her honestly is not the same as opening every wound from your past in front of her. Right now, she could interpret your unwillingness to sign as rejection, or distance. Without an explanation, people often choose the cruelest one their brain can find.” Something cold moves through my chest. Damn it. The office stretches around me, all glass and polish and controlled luxury, every surface reflecting a version of my current state.

“Our hour is up,” he says without even glancing at his watch. Therapist thing. Somehow he always knows exactly how much time has passed without checking. Elias rises from his chair and offers me a hand. A leather notebook rests beneath his arm, filled with God knows what. Probably a detailed account of my workaholism, paranoia, and various flavors of dysfunction. On his way to the door, he pauses.

“One last thing.” I raise an eyebrow. “When in doubt, remember that she has shown herself to you vulnerable.” His gaze softens behind the rectangular frames of his glasses. “Perhaps you should consider doing the same.” I remain where I am, hands braced against the edge of my desk, jaw locked as I stare at nothing in particular. My phone rings. I press the speaker button.

“Kathy.”

“Everyone’s ready for you in Meeting Room 2B, sir.”