Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
The hazy gold of dawn seeps through the window as the songbirds rouse me from sleep. I stretch long across the bed, a heavy stillness in my bones from a depth of rest that feels new to me. A dazed smile touches my lips as my eyes draw open.
My palm presses into linen. The bed is empty. The sunken imprint of his form tells me it was no dream, but his absence stirs something I do not like—quieter than panic, yet no less sharp.
I rise, and the cottage seems to expand without him—too large, too hollow.
Ease returns the moment I see him by the fire, coaxing it to life. Flame and morning light gild him in living gold. His eyes gleam, his smile widening when he turns.
“I didn’t want to wake you. You seemed so peaceful.”
Only then do I realize how tightly my muscles have been wound in the moments of his absence. How can I fear losing someone who only just entered my life so little ago?
Words fail me—pleasantries too thin, anything deeper lodged in my throat.
Each step toward him wakes some part of me until I stop just shy of the hearth.
Tightness coils in my chest as my heart trips over itself.
It’s been years since I’ve felt nervous around anyone, and this—this is nothing like the old kind.
Not the giddy sweetness of a girl pining after a boy, and not the familiar weight of standing apart from everyone else.
I don’t merely want him near.
Something in me turns toward him the way birds turn toward the south wind—trusting a pull they cannot name, following it across distances that should daunt them. And when he’s close, the world feels… aligned. As if I’ve been drifting out of true, and he is the thing that steadies me.
“And you? Did you sleep well?” I ask, reaching for the bucket in feigned casualness.
I nearly drop it when his smile breaks wider, alive. “Quite well—for a man so near the grave only days ago.” A low chuckle rumbles, shifting the air between us.
I cling to the bucket, a barrier between us and this storm of emotions—peaceful and alive, yet charged. I am at odds with myself and comforted, all at once.
“I’ll fetch water, then we can eat.” Even the simplest acts with him feel like home—familiar, though I have never known it before.
Outside, the air is sweet. Dew jewels the grasses, life unfurling with spring. I feel that promise with more hope than I’ve dared in years.
The day carries that same sweetness. Sitting across from him, we are no longer two strangers over porridge. Every laugh, every glance roots itself in me like the shoots breaking soil beyond my door, eager to bloom.
Even the mundane feels altered—each task in quiet harmony beside his gravity.
I can’t even explain it. Nearness of others always carried an invisible weight, the burden of obligation to play whatever role may make me more palatable.
I’ve not felt that once with him. I mask my fervent mix of emotions with busywork, but somehow I feel more myself even as he watches me so intently.
It is not yet midday when I pause, startled at how much I have done and with such an easy flow.
Opening a window, I bask in the smells of early spring carried on the breeze, so fresh and full of promise. I breathe it in, scent and hope alike.
“You seem as ready for that ride as Bracken must be.” The gravel in his voice grounds me, steady as stone, as if he could hold me with words alone.
The saddle waits near the door, rich leather worn and weathered, carved with years of care. Stiff though I still am, I will not let him bear it nor tack the horse for me. Stubbornness carries me through the effort until the moment his hand steadies me as I mount.
“Rest while I’m away? Please? I’ll ride more easily knowing you’re recovering safely.”
His voice is as steady as his hand. “Of course, little flame.”
I still. “Little flame?”
His head dips, a quiet defeat from the looseness of his tongue. “Yes. You have a fire in you. Anyone could see.”
I’ve been called names before. Vicious, cruel names meant to harm. His words are a gift. There’s affection behind them, yes, but it feels right. It feels like—me. I smile softly at him, struggling to let my gaze meet his for fear of just how much he seems to see when he looks at me.
I’ve never been so seen.
With that smile that not only charms but also seems to loosen the grip on my internal armor, he bids me on. I turn once, only to find him still at the doorway, lingering, watching until the trees swallow me.
The glade feels absurdly near—Bracken’s steady stride bringing us in moments where I usually meander.
The air does not carry the thick scent of jasmine that ushered me into this life months ago. Now only green tendrils and tight buds beg to open, as if they hold the same promise and hope aching to bloom within me.
But the thought falters, snapping like a stem bent too soon. That ache is not mine alone—it is born of him. Every fragile hope leans toward a man already halfway gone.
The sweetness sours in my chest, heavy with the knowledge that I am building a future on borrowed days.
I urge Bracken onward, as though distance can unmake what has rooted itself inside me.
The stream calls—not with the lilt of welcome it usually carries, but with a weight that presses on my heart.
The crooked falls no longer seem a beckoning veil but an omen—water breaking jaggedly over stone, warning of what lies ahead.
Every moment we share that threatens my peace heats my blood as the steed tears through the woods.
The rumble of Vale’s voice clings to me long after distance steals its echo—that slip of a name, little flame, setting alight something I cannot contain.
His gaze lingers on my skin like embers refusing to fade, and I carry the blaze of it down to the stream as though I cannot breathe until it is doused.
I was perfectly content before his arrival and now—now all I can think about is him.
That voice that unravels me with a whisper, those eyes that seem to see into the depth of my soul, everything about him feels like a threat to my peaceful life here.
Because everything about him seems to call me near.
The woods blur as we fly. I urge him on, faster, until branches whip past and the pounding of his hooves matches the racing in my chest. Breath tears ragged from us both, beast and rider, as though we share the same storm.
The water waits—clear and cutting—its surface fractured by the crooked falls. I strip without ceremony, as if each layer I shed might take the heat with it. The first touch of its flow steals my breath, frigid and merciless, but I welcome it. I crave it.
I sink deeper, letting the cold close over me, gasping as it sears and soothes in equal measure.
The fire inside me writhes, battles, then bends to the chill until I can no longer tell whether I tremble from heat or cold.
All I know is that I need the water to claim me, to cool the ache his words have left burning through my chest.
Clenching my eyes shut, I let the current wash over me, as though the current itself might carry away what I dare not name.
I rise at last, the water clinging to me in rivulets, heavy and cold. Normally the stream leaves me sharpened, refreshed—as though the world itself has rinsed me clean. But not this time. I feel raw, scoured, every nerve alive with what I tried to drown.
Dressing in silence, fingers fumbling more than they should, the fabric clings damp against skin that still seems to burn beneath its chill. No comfort settles over me, only the restless sense that I have carried fire into the water, and it has refused to die.
Bracken raises his head from the stream, water dripping down his dark muzzle. His eyes are watchful, nostrils flaring as though he too senses the unrest in me. I press a hand to his neck, the steady pulse beneath my palm a tether, and swing into the saddle.
Bathed and quenched, we turn homeward together, no word between us—only the solemn weight of knowing some fires cannot be stilled.
We burst into the clearing of the glade once more, where grass grows thick and sweet, he tears at it eagerly.
I stay until his hunger eases, stroking his mane more for my own calm than his.
Only then do I coax him toward the cottage, promising him hay once he’s rested—a small reward for the miles he has carried me.
Conflict tugs within me yet again. The comfort I feel in returning to him nestled alongside the unease of wanting someone, perhaps even needing someone, stirs in me.
I still myself once more before entering the cottage.
I do not need anyone. I am fine on my own, always have been.
I draw in a breath as my hand touches the handle.
The door creaks open on familiar warmth, firelight banked low. Vale is there. Not waiting at the threshold, but settled within as if he belongs to the place—half risen from the chair near the hearth, or perhaps only just leaving the bedchamber. His eyes find me, and something in his stance eases.
One look at him and any resolve I have mustered falters; any longing I tried to wash away seeps through my skin.
He steps close and brushes back a damp strand clinging to my cheek, a simple act that makes my pulse quicken. I fear I will buckle beneath the weight of his gentle touch.
“You seem refreshed,” he says with a smile—the flush in my cheeks taken for vigor, not for the war that stirs inside me.
The moment stretches, soft and unspoken, as he casually steps aside to let me pass—no sign that he senses the turmoil inside me.
The rest of the evening folds gently around us—the small rhythm of chores, the simple cadence of supper—it lulls me into something I can almost convince myself is calm. Yet I feel the pull of each motion weaving us more tightly into one another’s company.