Chapter 62 #3
“So now everything is happening. Everything old and rotten and terrifying is crawling back to the surface. The ghosts I buried. The fears I learned not to name. They’re here. The danger, the betrayals, the gods-forsaken weight of it—and now I feel all of it. At once.”
The last words trembled out of her, hoarse and aching.
“And I can't—I don't know how to survive it and feel it at the same time.”
Her voice broke completely; she reached for her pieces as they fell, but Alaric was there before she could bend for them. Her breath shortened. Shallow, panicked. Like her lungs had forgotten how to expand.
A sound escaped her throat. Not quite a sob, not quite a gasp. She slapped both hands over her mouth, trying to trap it, to will it away. Her vision blurred at the edges.
No. Not now. Not like this.
Her body didn’t listen. Her body never listened. It remembered too much.
And then, there was him.
“Evelyne,” Alaric said gently.
She blinked, startled by the way her name felt in his voice. Steady. Deep. Kind in a way that didn’t pity her. She forced her gaze to rise, and there he was—close but not crowding, his tall frame tense with concern, his brown eyes wide and warm and wholly focused on her.
“I’m here,” he said. “Look at me.”
She did. Her breath was still a mess, her hands still trembling where they pressed against her lips, but she looked.
“Breathe in for four. Come on. One... two... three... four.”
She followed the rhythm like a lifeline. His voice pulled her back from the cliff, one syllable at a time.
“Good. Again.”
Her shoulders eased by a fraction.
He watched her for a moment longer, then spoke again, this time slower.
“Sometimes when your body forgets it’s safe, touch can help. Pressure.” His jaw flexed, as if weighing each word before giving it breath. “Can I touch you?”
The question wasn’t casual. It held the weight of real choice.
Evelyne nodded. Just once. It felt enormous.
His arms slowly wrapped around her. For a long, frozen moment, Evelyne hovered at the edge of herself, caught between instinct and exhaustion. Every part of her screamed to pull away. But her body knew what her mind refused to admit.
So it leaned.
Her forehead brushed against the hollow of his throat, and she felt, almost with wonder, the solid reality of him. The warmth of skin, the faint trace of his scent, something clean and steadying, edged faintly with sea and sun.
“Stop…” It came out cracked, brittle down the center. “Don’t care for me. Care for someone whole.”
She blinked hard, shoulders trembling, arms caught halfway between pulling him closer and pushing him away.
But Alaric didn’t flinch. Slowly, his hand rose, settling at the back of her head, steady and warm.
The other remained at the small of her back, where his fingers tapped a quiet, grounding rhythm.
“You’re not some crumbled statue, Evie,” he said, voice low. “You’re the only truth I’ve ever wanted to believe in without question.”
He tipped his forehead lightly toward hers, pausing there.
“And this?” His thumb brushed behind her ear. “This is the most human I’ve ever seen you. And the most beautiful.”
She tried to turn away.
“Don’t hide it,” he breathed. “Your emotions… they’re what make you a masterpiece.”
Her hands, useless things, curled against the sides of his shirt.
He inhaled through his nose. “If you give yourself to me tonight, because you think you must, then I am no better than the men who tore your life apart.”
She trembled.
Alaric simply held her even tighter. She pressed her eyes closed, letting the world narrow to the warmth of his chest against her, the rhythmic beat of his heart beneath her ear, the silent, unbearable truth of being allowed—just this once—not to be strong.
Just for a moment.
Just for a breath.
Just as she began to lean, he gently stepped back.
The absence hit harder than she expected. The air touched her skin like a ghost. She hadn’t known she wanted to be held until the warmth disappeared.
He reached for her robe and draped it over her shoulders. And then he leaned in to press a single kiss to her forehead.
Her breath caught. It landed somewhere where the ache lived. Where the fear still coiled tight. Her mind was doing laps around itself, darting between duty, fear, expectation, and a hundred things she hadn’t been taught how to name.
She glanced down and immediately regretted it. The robe was back on, but underneath she was still in nothing but her nightgown, and now that they weren’t moving toward anything, it felt ridiculous. Like standing on a stage after the curtain had dropped.
“So,” she stammered, sniffing. “What... are we supposed to do now?”
Alaric looked around the room. Then, as if the answer had been waiting all along, he crossed to the mantle of the fireplace, picked up the wine carafe and two glasses, and set them down gently on the rug near the hearth.
He pulled a few pillows from the bed and arranged them in a loose circle near the fire.
Then he turned back to her and held out a hand.
“We talk,” he said.
Evelyne stared at him for a beat, and then she let him lead her. As they walked, she wondered if it was possible to be disarmed by something as simple as someone not asking for more.