Chapter Eight
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Archie
Sarelia’s become upset, and I do not know why.
Normally when Sarelia is upset and I don’t know why, I watch back the feeds, find the moment her mood shifted, deduce the reason, and, if at all possible, order Stone to fix it immediately or so help me.
However, I am in the uncomfortable situation right now of actually being in her presence, and as enjoyable as that discomfort is, it does come with some limitations.
Namely, I have no instant replay. I have only my memory to rely on, and it’s full up of her hair softly brushing my arm as her head whips around to keep up with the conversations surrounding us and the gentle rose of her cheeks when her head swings my way.
It does not contain, say, any useful thing in regards to parsing her mood, such as her face.
For shame, I know, even if one could posit that her hair and her cheeks are just as worthy of devotion as the entirety of her face is.
I should make a schedule, I think. On Mondays I worship her hair, on Tuesdays I worship the line of her neck sliding into her collarbone, and on Wednesdays I pay enough attention to her on the whole that I don’t miss it when something has made her feel unrest.
I frown, puzzling out the problem.
I could ask her and avoid whatever possible miscommunications arise from such a course of action.
Or.
I could trust that I know my dear Sarelia well enough to figure it out myself and remedy her pain without bothering her with the awkwardness of confronting it herself.
As a man, I know exactly what I’m going to do.
“My bride?” I murmur, spinning us away from the group that’s gathered at the end of the compound’s road, where the trailhead to Stryker’s hiking trail begins.
Sarelia focuses her full attention on me as I pull us behind a tall, wide oak, positioning myself with my back against the bark and her before me. I tug on her hand until she falls against my chest. My arms encircle her, trapping her on the slim chance she gets the urge to flee.
She’s never been a runner before, but it doesn’t hurt to take precautions.
“Yes?” she breathes, eyes wide as her body brushes mine. Her breathing quickens, and I recall that I’m meant to be being a gentleman until our wedding has officially taken place. I am not meant to be putting us in risque positions against trees.
My head tilts as I place my morals against my current position with Sarelia, then straightens as I decide that I will let my wife guide what is okay or not in our relationship.
She knows what she’s comfortable with, and she knows what levels of discomfort she might enjoy.
Judging by the thundering of her heart and the way that she leans into me, it seems she does enjoy the level of discomfort snuggling up to me now brings, even with the rough bark of an oak tree brushing bits of her skin.
“What’s upset you, my love?”
Her lashes flutter, and her brows draw low over her eyes. “I’m not upset,” she lies.
I hum. “The holes you’re digging into your skin tell a different story.”
“That’s probably just runoff from me writing all those books that you’re seeing,” she counters. “As an author, I tell lots of stories. It would make sense that some of them bleed into my skin, affecting my mannerisms. Feel free to disregard.”
She smiles a sweet-little-liar smile, and I sigh, allowing my amusement to cover my face as I reply, “Do remember, I’ve been studying you. Hours and hours of research—even more than you’ve dedicated to me.”
She gasps, disbelieving, and I nod.
“Truly,” I assure her. “I have had access to round-the-clock surveillance of you for quite some time now. I know your routines and your habits. I know the way you carry yourself when you’re happy, when you’re sad, when you’re angry—and when you’re upset. Like you are right now.”
Her lower lip sneaks out, presenting me with a cutie-pie princess pout the likes of which I am ill-prepared to handle. “I’m not upset,” she mumbles.
I sigh, sliding my hand to hers and pulling it between our faces.
“Do you see this?” I ask, turning so that her palm, and its itsy-bitsy crescent moon imprints, is aimed toward her.
“And this.” I lift her arm further until her forearm takes the stage.
When she hasn’t been trying to slice open her hands, she’s been terrorizing this tender flesh, turning the smooth, pale skin delectably red.
But she’s, you know, not upset. Even though these are her upset mannerisms—hers, not her character’s—that I’ve witnessed countless times.
“Why are you upset?” I ask again, lowering both of our arms so that I can look her in the eye as she battles the urge to continue pretending she is fine, fine, so fine.
She bites her lip—indecision—before sighing and tugging at her ear—capitulation. If I’m reading her right.
Which I am.
“It’s silly,” she warns.
“I love silly,” I reply. “Silly is, in fact, my bread and butter.”
A puff of a laugh escapes her lips to land on mine.
“What is it, my princess? Tell me, that I may slay your ‘silly’ dragon before officially sweeping you into the adventure that is our love story.”
Her eyes skitter past mine to land on something in the distance beyond my head as she speaks.
“They’re just so supportive,” she mumbles.
“Your friends—your family. This is objectively an insane thing to do, marrying me for no reason beyond the ‘convenience’ of it, but none of them hesitated. No one asked any questions. There weren’t any Are you sure?
s or Let’s think this through a little mores.
They just…” She trails off, blinking against the soft wetness gathering on her eyelashes.
“They just supported me,” I finish for her.
“They just loved you,” she counters on a whisper as a tear escapes to slide down her cheek.
Knife to my stomach, I wince. “This is about your family.”
Of course it’s about her family. It’s her wedding day.
I’m such a dunce.
The last update I got on her status before Stone showed up with her at my door was that she’d announced her retirement to her family and they had made clear once again that while they love her, they have no clue how to show it.
“Your family loves you.” I tap my forehead against hers. “I promise you, they do. It’s properly showing it to you that they’re bad at.”
She frowns, then nibbles at her downturned lips. “If they love me—actually love me—then supporting me shouldn’t be that difficult. It’s like the people here for you. You just do it.”
Ah, my sweet little bird. So misguided. “They do this now because it’s safest, dearest, not because it’s easy.”
Her brows furrow. “I don’t understand.”
“They do love me, of course. I’m very lovable.
However. That does not mean that they always support me, or that when they do support me they always do it perfectly.
It is only for big, huge, monumental things that they tend to pull themselves together for a show of support like the one you’re witnessing.
And I’m ninety percent sure that’s merely because they wish to avoid the fit and revenge that would be the aftermath of them not supporting my marrying you.
Normally, Heidi fights me on every plot I devise, and Stryker makes a hobby out of telling me no.
Millie is 50/50 on if she’ll be on my team, and Rosie is on whatever side Baz is on, which is usually whatever side Heidi is on, which is, as mentioned, not my side. ”
Sarelia’s eyes meet mine, and she blinks. “Are you telling me they’re supporting you out of fear, not love?”
“No.” I shake my head, then rethink my answer.
“Well, yes, but no. This time they’re supporting me out of fear and love.
But there are times when they support me out of love alone and times they support me out of a craving for mischief.
Then there are times they don’t support me at all, also because they love me or because they have a different sort of craving for mischief.
Love and support do not always go hand-in-hand, and beyond that, support does not always look the way we expect it to look.
” I reach a finger up to trace along the contours of her cheek, right over the constellations below her pretty hazel eyes, then continue, “Particularly for people like us—people who feel our love so strongly, we excuse a multitude of faults in the name of supporting the one who has stolen our affections.”
My finger dips, then slides, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“You look at me and you give me your unwavering devotion regardless of how I behave or the things I say. You love in such a way that you assume your loved ones’ intentions are good and their flaws are also—somehow, someway—good, and that seeing their flaws as flaws would mean that you were wrong, not them.
” I drop my hand and teeter my forehead against hers.
“I’m the same as you when it comes to this.
Especially when it comes to you. I love you in such a way that even the mere notion that you may have flaws grates against my ribs and claws at my throat, threatening to tear me apart should I entertain the thought one millisecond longer.
But for them? For the ones who love in a way that isn’t all-consuming, all-encompassing, and all-devouring?
They see our flaws and they choose to love us despite them, or through them, or with them.
And sometimes, with certain types of people, that means we get fix-it relationships.
Their intentions are good and rooted in love, and they want ‘what’s best for us’, but they often can’t see past their own thoughts and feelings on the subject to consider our thoughts and feelings.
Your parents love you, Sarelia. They do.
They simply don’t love you in the way that I love you, or in the way that you love them. They’re fix-it lovers.”
I take a deep breath, encouraging her to take it with me, then swipe a tear from her cheek.
“You don’t need fixed, though, do you, my dearest?
And you don’t need support, either, despite what you may think.
You just need to be accepted. Accepted, and trusted, and believed, and loved in ways that feel so simple and natural to you, but are not for the fixers.
” I kiss her forehead, then run my lips across her hairline until they reach her ear.
My tongue flicks out, brushing against her skin before returning to my mouth, carrying the sweet taste of her with it.
“Luckily for you, you’re not marrying a fixer.
And I think you’ll find that it’s much easier to handle the disappointment of the fixers not loving you as you wish they would when you’ve got me by your side. ”
She sucks in a breath that shudders against my chest, so I wrap my arms around her waist and pull her impossibly closer until naught but a sliver of wind could pass between us.
She allows this, then takes it a step further, twisting her head and ducking until her face is pressed against the sensitive skin of my neck.
I shiver.
“Your family are not fix-it lovers,” she says.
“My found family are not fix-it lovers,” I confirm. “My family family, on the other hand… Well, I suppose it depends on the day. Stone, for instance, has done quite the fix-it, I believe.”
Her face contorts against my neck. “Should we call him back? Or… any of your family? To be here for the wedding?”
I hum, nuzzling her hair. “No, he’ll be long gone by now, enjoying his cocktails. And the rest of my family won’t mind missing this. We can have another later for them.” Ah, but… “What about you? Do you wish to delay for your family’s sake?”
Her head shakes, a hard no. “They’d only try to stop me. We can… we can invite them to the other, if you still want it in the future.”
Oh, what a funny bride I have. “I’ll want it,” I assure her, then sigh, disentangling us.
“But first, we must have this one.” I wrap my fingers around hers and pull, delighting in the catch of her breath as she tumbles toward me.
“Come, love. Cast aside your stress and let me teach you what it feels like to be loved the way that you love. Later—when the honeymoon has passed—we will tackle the fix-it lovers, and perhaps together we can teach them how to recognize when things ought not to be fixed. Me and you, husband and wife, lovers united against this great, big, scary world, lovers united to terrorize those who terror.”
She blinks against the few straggler tears still welling in her eyes, but smiles. “Terrorizing those who terror does sound pretty nice,” she agrees, squeezing my hand.
Slowly, a grin cracks across my face.
“You have no idea.”