23. Aria
Aria
I lie on the bed, my back pressed against the rough linen, staring up at the low ceiling. The washbasin in the corner still drips, each plunk of water echoing in the quiet room. We’ve both scrubbed off the grime of travel—my hair is damp against my neck, and Roan’s smells faintly of cheap soap. That mundane detail makes everything feel strangely ordinary, except it’s anything but.
She’s still in the chair, arms folded across her chest, posture stiff and unmoving—like she’s expecting the door to blow open at any moment. Like she’s ready to throw herself between me and whatever comes through it.
Her eyes keep drifting to me, even when she thinks I’m not looking.
It’s been nearly an hour since our dance, and I haven’t slept a moment. Not with the echo of her hands on my waist still lingering. Not with the way she looked at me—like I was something delicate and dangerous all at once.
I shift beneath the blankets, the mattress creaking softly under me. The room is dim, lit only by the dying glow of a single candle. Shadows pool in the corners like silent watchers.
“…Roan,” I whisper.
She grunts—a low, tired sound—but it tells me she’s awake. Still on guard. Still watching .
“You don’t have to keep watch,” I say, my voice barely above the hush of the wind against the window. “We’re in an inn. The door’s locked.”
She exhales through her nose, a sound halfway between a huff and a laugh. “You think your clan cares about locked doors?”
My throat tightens. Because she’s not wrong.
I remember every wall they’ve broken through, every fortress that failed to stop them. But something about tonight—the normalcy of a modest room, the presence of a bed we can actually rest in—makes me yearn to pretend, just for a few hours, that I’m not being hunted.
“They might not,” I admit, “but we need sleep. You need sleep.”
“I can manage a few hours on the chair. I’ve done it before.”
In the lantern’s glow, I can see the lines of fatigue etched at her brow, the way her shoulders still carry the tension of the day’s skirmish. My chest tightens. I don’t want her hunched up by the door, half-dozing and half-worrying whether enforcers will appear or not.
“Roan,” I say, voice soft yet firm. “Come share the bed with me.”
A flicker of something—surprise, maybe—crosses her face. She hesitates, eyes darting to the single mattress. “I—”
I tug at the blanket, offering a few more inches of space. My heart beats so loud I’m sure she can hear it.
“There’s enough room for both of us,” I say, hoping I sound braver than I feel. “And if anything happens, we’ll know. We’ll wake up.”
Her throat works as she swallows. She looks torn between stubbornness and the obvious fact that she’s bone-tired. Finally, with a resigned sigh, she steps away from the window, unlacing her boots as if she might change her mind at any second.
“Fine. But if anything so much as creaks, I’m up,” she grumbles.
My lips twitch, and I quickly agree, “Deal.”
I turn my eyes to the ceiling, face warm, acutely aware of how close we’re about to be. The bed dips under her weight as she sits on the edge. She shifts awkwardly, stretches one arm, and then slowly lies back. The distance between us is small—far too small for my racing heartbeat.
A tense silence settles. I can sense every breath she takes, the faint rustle of fabric as she adjusts the blanket. My shoulder barely brushes hers, a spot of heat that sends a shiver down my spine.
“You okay?” she asks, voice low.
I nod, belatedly realizing she might not see it in the dim light. “Yes,” I manage, clearing my throat.
Roan exhales something like a laugh, but there’s an edge of nerves to it. “Good.”
I’m not sure how much time passes between us. Seconds, minutes, hours. The world outside carries on, oblivious to the way my pulse pounds in my ears, to the way my skin feels too warm under the blankets.
Roan shifts beside me, the mattress dipping slightly with the movement. Neither of us has spoken since we settled in, but sleep still feels far away.
I hesitate, then let the words slip out. “You were incredible earlier.”
Roan lets out a soft huff of laughter, the sound rough and quiet in the dim room. “Incredible?” she echoes, her voice still edged with exhaustion.
I nod, even though she can’t see it. “I had no idea you could fight like that.” I turn my head slightly, daring to glance at her. “It was like watching a goddess.”
That gets a real laugh out of her this time, low and throaty. “A goddess? Hell of a title for a mercenary.”
I smile despite myself. “I mean it.”
Roan doesn’t answer right away. She’s staring at the ceiling, her expression unreadable. Then, after a pause, she murmurs, “I just did what I had to.”
I chew my lip, considering that. “It was more than that.”
Roan shifts again, rolling onto her side to look at me. The room is dark, but in the slivers of moonlight filtering through the window, I can see the way her brow furrows slightly, the way she studies me like she’s trying to figure something out.
“You weren’t so bad yourself,” she finally says, her voice softer now. “That was a damn good trick with the dagger.”
I snort, shaking my head. “I panicked.”
She smirks. “Panic or not, you still got the bastard.”
A flicker of pride sparks in my chest, but I don’t say anything. The silence stretches again, thick with something unspoken.
Roan exhales, rubbing a hand over her face. When she speaks next, her voice is quieter. “You really thought I looked like a goddess?”
I blink, heat creeping up my neck. “I—” I clear my throat. “I was just—”
She chuckles again, this time deeper, almost teasing. “That flustered, Mouse?”
Groaning, I bury my face in the pillow. “You’re impossible.”
The bed creaks slightly as she shifts. “Maybe,” she says, softer now. “But you’re the one who called me a goddess. Can’t just expect me to ignore that.”
I glance over at her, trying to glare. The smirk on her lips makes it impossible to hold onto my indignation. “I said you fought like one. Not that you were one.”
Roan hums, as if weighing my words. “Mm. Pretty much the same thing.”
I scoff, shaking my head, but the warmth in my chest lingers. The teasing melts into something quieter, something I can’t quite put a name to.
For a moment, neither of us speaks. The only sounds are the faint murmur of voices from downstairs, the occasional creak of the inn settling.
I exhale, voice soft. “Well. Thank you.”
Roan shifts slightly beside me. “For what?”
“For everything,” I murmur. “You didn’t have to…”
She turns her head, and I feel the faintest brush of breath against my ear. My breath stutters.
“I wanted to,” she says simply. “Look, I’m not great at this—whatever this is—but you deserve some peace.”
The words sink deep, settling like a weight in my chest. Heavy. Steady. Warm.
I want to say something more—to confess that she’s the reason I’m still holding it together. That her presence, her steadiness, her hands on mine when we danced, are the only things keeping the shadows at bay.
But the words tangle on my tongue.
So instead, I settle for resting my hand on the blanket between us, close enough that our fingers nearly touch.
She notices; I can feel her tense, then exhale. If I shift just a little, I could slip my hand into hers. The awareness of that possibility sets my nerves alight, but neither of us moves.
We’ve held hands before, but not in a bed . It feels almost taboo to even want it.
Minutes pass. The murmur of voices downstairs fades. My eyelids grow heavy. The warmth of the bed, the steady sound of Roan’s breathing beside me, and the knowledge that—for tonight—I’m not alone, finally starts to lull me toward sleep.
“I’m here,” Roan murmurs.
So quiet, I almost miss it.
Warmth blooms in my chest. I close my eyes, let the dark cradle me. She’s here.
And for the first time in too long, I feel safe enough to drift off, leaving my fears to rest beside me, overshadowed by the gentle presence of the woman lying next to me.