Chapter 62 #2
She clung to him. There was no other word for it.
Her hands found the back of his neck, his hair, his shoulder blades—anything that would keep her upright as his touch swept fire across her.
The room disappeared. The castle disappeared.
The only thing that existed was the slow press of his hand over her body.
His touch slid higher, brushing the side of her breast. Her breath hitched, pleasure and panic collided. She tilted her head back with a gasp, giving him more, and he took it. His mouth was on her neck now. She could hear his breathing—heavy, ragged, right against her ear.
His hand drifted lower, tracing the curve of her waist, then down, igniting heat with every slow inch toward the inside of her thigh.
It was too much.
Too much heat. Too much feeling. Her thoughts, already frayed at the edges, gave out entirely. Somewhere in her chest, something slammed shut, or maybe flew open. She couldn’t tell anymore. All she knew was that if this continued, she wouldn’t come back from it whole.
His touch slipped further, with a pressure so light it made her gasp, his hand shifted, finally, beneath her, cupping her with a reverence that undid whatever remained of her composure.
Heat bloomed through her in an exquisite surge, hips tilting instinctively into his palm. Alaric’s mouth found hers again, swallowing her whimpers, as his fingers began to gently move, like he meant to memorize every way she could unravel for him.
Evelyne clung to him even more, one hand buried in his hair, the other pressing to his chest. His name hovered at the back of her throat, but her body betrayed her long before her voice did.
It all crashed over her at once, drowning her. Her body went still, breath faltering mid-kiss.
Her skin felt fevered, her limbs too heavy, her breath ragged in a way that no longer thrilled but unsettled.
The pleasure twisted sharp at the edges, tipping into panic.
Her body had moved ahead of her heart, and now her mind was scrambling to catch up.
She tried to speak, to ask him to wait, but the air caught in her throat instead.
Alaric stilled. Gently he pulled away, leaving her gasping for air.
He withdrew his hand from between her thighs and brought it to her cheek, tilting her chin up so she would look at him, but her eyes were unfocused, pupils blown.
His thumb brushed over her skin. His gaze searched hers, scanning every inch of her expression, watching, reading.
“Breathe, Evelyne.”
Evelyne blinked.
It was only then that she realized she had forgotten how.
Alaric exhaled slowly. His eyes burned with the embers of restrained desire, but beneath it, she saw something else.
Concern.
“Are you alright?” His voice was hoarse. “I'm sorry. I should’ve noticed sooner.”
Evelyne took a slow breath, willing her heartbeat to steady.
“I'm all right. It's just a lot.”
Alaric nodded, his gaze searching her face, lingering on the way her chest rose and fell, on the slight tremor in her fingers where they still rested against his chest.
“We can slow down,” he continued. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”
“No… I’m fine,” Evelyne took another breath, forcing steel into her voice. “Please continue. We have to consummate the marriage.”
The words felt foreign in her mouth, like something learned rather than lived. The warmth in his eyes cooled, his brows drawing slightly inward, as if her words had cut more deeply than she'd intended.
“We don’t have to—”
“We need to,” she cut in, her breathing heavy.
She knew immediately she had gone too far.
The change in him was instant. His expression didn’t twist in anger or recoil in offense. It just… stilled. The light in his eyes dimmed.
“Evelyne…”
Just hearing him speaking her name in that voice made something twist inside her.
She crossed her arms, as if that would keep all the broken parts of her from spilling out. “This is our duty,” she pressed, her tone sharper now. “And without it, our marriage is not consummated—”
“I know,” he interrupted. “I’m not shying away from it. But I had hoped…” He broke off, exhaling, dragging a hand through his hair in a way that made him look younger.
“I want this to feel like it’s yours,” Alaric said, voice low with intent. “Every part of it. Your pace, your choice.” He studied her face, searching for the answer in her eyes.
She bit the inside of her cheek and looked away. Wanting something meant admitting she wanted it. Duty was easier. Duty was clean. Duty asked nothing but obedience and offered cover in return. It didn’t require her to know.
She crossed her arms tighter around herself, because she didn’t know what else to do with them. Her fingertips brushed the edge of her nightgown, her skin still tingled where he had touched her.
“It's not that I don’t want—” she stopped herself, jaw tightening. “I just don’t know what I want. And that makes it... messy. And messy isn’t a luxury I’m allowed. Not in public. Not in private. Not even in my own head.”
“Then I’ll stay where you are. Not behind you, not ahead. Just here.”
She shook her head, barely, her throat felt tight again.
“This is unrealistic. You're a man. I'm your wife. Eventually, you're going to want something more than long, patient stares, sharp banter, and philosophical restraint.”
Her gaze dropped for a moment—to the bed, the carefully drawn curtains, the flicker of candlelight across polished wood and silk. The setting was a scene drawn from a story she’d been told since she was old enough to braid her own hair.
“Say something,” she urged at last.
He tilted his head slightly, as if considering his words. That infuriating calm again. She wanted to shake it off him. Or wrap herself in it.
“You’re scared,” he remarked.
She flinched. Her instinct was to snap back. No, I’m not. I don’t get scared.
But that wasn’t honesty, and she was already exhausted from pretending.
He moved toward her, calm as ever. That careful softness in his steps made her tense, instinctively bracing for something she couldn’t name.
“We’ll stop here for today,” he said with a smile so earned she almost cried.
“No,” she protested. “We have to do it. It’s expected—”
“Expected by who, exactly?” he asked. “Do you think they're going to check?” His voice carried that maddening, dry amusement she hadn’t yet decided if she loathed or envied. “We’ll leave a few clues—left jewelry, a wrinkled sheet. The court mob needs something to gossip about.”
“You don’t understand,” she insisted. “This doesn’t work that way. I don’t get to say no to duty.”
“I respected your boundaries earlier,” he explained. “Now I need you to respect mine.”
That made her pause.
“It shouldn’t look like it,” he added, quieter now. “Not when you feel like you’re walking into battle.”
“Battle?” Evelyne barked, stepping back, her hands slicing through the air. “You think this is a battle? Gods, Alaric, it's the whole bloody war.”
Her hands were trembling now. She didn’t bother to hide them.
“You should stay in your box,” she choked. “You’re supposed to be the charming ally. The inconvenient husband. Not a… not a constant.”
That made him blink.
“It’s easier,” she stammered. “Everything is easier when it’s sorted. Controlled.”
But it was already unraveling. The thorns beneath the silk. Her heart was racing toward something it didn’t know how to name.
“I let myself… once,” she said. “I let myself soften toward someone. I thought—” Her voice wavered. “And then he died.”
She looked at him, really looked.
“You don’t want this, Alaric. Not really. You deserve someone without rust in her chest. Someone who doesn’t flinch when you raise your voice, or freeze when you get too close. Someone who doesn’t mistake kindness for danger.”
He took a single step forward. “Evie—”
That’s enough.
She paced, words spilling from her lips faster than she could catch them.
“Every day, every breath. Every choice weighed against expectations I didn’t set, promises I didn’t make, debts I inherited without asking.
I don’t get victories. I get survival. I get moments where I’m tolerated if I perform just well enough not to offend anyone's delicate sense of tradition. I get—”
She stopped abruptly, the words choking her now, her hands trembling as she ran them through her hair. “And now—” she gasped, pacing again, “you stand there offering me kindness like it's something I’m supposed to know how to take without ruining it.”
Her voice cracked, but she didn’t care. She was too far past caring.
“I don’t know how to—how to accept something that isn't laced with expectation. I don't know how to be—” Her throat closed up, the words clawing at her, raw and ragged. “I don't know how to be wanted without owing something back.”
She pressed the heels of her palms against her eyes, dragging in a shuddering breath, but it did nothing to steady her.
“I wasn’t even living anymore,” she admitted, her voice barely more than a rasp. “I was moving through the motions. Smiling when needed, speaking when expected. Like someone half-alive, playing at duty because it was all I had left. Existing with that… curse.”
She drew a shaky breath.
“I turned it all off,” she forced out. “I had to. There wasn’t enough room to survive and feel. Not both. Not if I wanted to stay standing.”
She paused, shaking her head.
“And then you came,” she croaked, looking at him now, raw and accusing and helpless all at once. “You with your stupid smile and your ridiculous questions, terrible jokes and your way of looking at me like I was more than just a crown balanced on a too thin neck. And I started to feel.”
Her chest tightened, breath shuddering as she forced the words out. She couldn’t dare to look at him.