Chapter 14 A Chance at Truth
A CHANCE AT TRUTH
By the time we stepped inside, the rain had become relentless, beating against the tall windows like whispers on glass.
The manor felt different now, alive somehow, the storm outside breathing through its walls.
After Vas had closed the doors behind us, the sound had echoed through the hall, deep and final.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. I was too aware of the soft patter of water dripping from our clothes, the faint hiss of the fire burning in the nearby hearth. My hair clung to my face, damp tendrils curling against my neck, and I could feel his eyes on me as I brushed them away.
“You’re soaked,” he said quietly, his voice rougher than usual, almost reluctant.
“So are you,” I managed, my own voice unsteady. He gave a soft sound, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh, before taking a step closer.
“Wait here,” he said, disappearing through one of the side doors.
I stood awkwardly in the grand hall, trying to ignore how small I felt surrounded by the towering portraits and the flicker of lightning beyond the windows. When he returned, he carried a folded towel and a blanket, both warm from the fire. He held them out to me, his expression unreadable.
“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice barely carrying. He hesitated a moment before replying,
“I don’t want you getting sick.” The words were simple, almost teasing, but there was something behind them, something he didn’t mean to give away. I took the towel from his hand, careful not to brush his fingers, though the warmth of him lingered in the air between us.
For a long moment, I just stood there, drying my hair as he watched, silent and unblinking. It should have been unnerving, but it wasn’t. It was… grounding, in a strange way, like I was being studied by someone who hadn’t quite decided whether to save me or destroy me.
Finally, he turned away, his tone composed again.
“There’s a fire in the library, it’s warmer there.” He said, now turning abruptly, as if he had hit his limit on watching me. So, I followed him through the corridor, the flickering candlelight spilling over his broad shoulders and catching in his damp hair.
The air in the library was rich with the scent of burning wood and old paper. He gestured toward the armchair nearest the fire, and I sat, grateful for the heat. For a while, we said nothing. The storm outside filled the silence, the thunder rolling low and distant. Then, softly, he said,
“You shouldn’t have come outside with me today.”
“I didn’t know I had a choice,” I said, watching the flames dance.
“No, I suppose you didn’t, I suppose you don’t have much choice with anything these days,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the fire.
There was no cruelty in his tone, only quiet observation. It made something in me twist painfully, the truth of it too raw to deny. I wanted to ask him what he meant, but before I could, he moved toward the window, his figure outlined by lightning.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he said suddenly, his voice low, almost lost to the storm. I turned in my chair, heart skipping.
“Like what?” He looked back at me, his expression unreadable behind the half-mask, his eyes dark and ancient.
“Haunted,” he said, and the word lingered in the air between us, fragile and heavy all at once.
I wanted to tell him that I didn’t believe that was all he was.
That somewhere beneath the anger and shadows, there was still a man who could feel.
But I stayed silent. Because for all I knew, I might be wrong.
The library felt different that evening, warmer somehow.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth, casting its glow across the shelves and gilded spines, every book a world waiting to be touched.
The scent of leather, aged parchment, and smoke filled the air, the kind of scent that wrapped itself around you like a memory.
Vas leaned against the window frame, his arms crossed, watching me as I rose so I could approach him.
I stopped to look at the shelves. For once, I wasn’t really interested.
But then this was my lie. My excuse was to be closer to him before he could fully pull away like he usually did.
So, I trailed my fingers along the bindings, feeling the raised letters beneath my skin.
I had always loved that, the texture of stories, the promise of escape.
“You have quite the collection,” I said, glancing at him to find him watching my every move.
He nodded once.
“I suppose I do.”
“It’s beautiful, I think I could lose myself in here for days,” I admitted and like so many times before, something in his expression softened. But he said nothing, only continued to watch me with that quiet intensity that always made it hard to breathe.
I stopped near a table stacked high with books, some ancient, some newer, their edges yellowed with time. My hand lingered over one before I spoke again, my voice lower this time.
“When I was younger, I used to hide in the library during closing time so that I could spend the night.” He tilted his head slightly.
“Weren’t you scared?”
“I was more afraid to go home,” I admitted, instantly questioning once I said it, why it was so much easier talking to him about this stuff than anyone else.
“I never told anyone that before.” He seemed surprised by this. His head tilted slightly, the faintest crease appearing between his brows as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard me correctly.
“Yet you freely tell me…why?” I shrugged, the damp jacket I still wore clinging tighter around me as it dried slowly in the flickering warmth of the fire.
“Perhaps because I have never met anyone who is as haunted by the past as I am…perhaps because I thought I was alone.” He stilled. I didn’t miss the way his throat worked as he swallowed hard, as if trying to push down the emotion I had dragged to the surface. His voice came out rougher, quieter.
“Yet you continued to live your life despite the oblivion of suffering.”
“And you?” I asked softly.
“Don’t be fooled into thinking this is living.” He replied with a cutting edge to his voice, one I pushed past all the same.
“Then what is it, Vas?”
“It’s living for a cause. There is a difference,” he told me, his tone heavy with something that went beyond pain. It sounded like endurance, like chains that had been worn too long.
“And the cause is vengeance,” I said quietly.
“It is.” The finality in his voice made me ache for him. It was as if every letter in that word had been carved into him long ago, and he had been bleeding from it ever since.
“And what happens after?” I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, wondering if he even knew what life beyond vengeance could look like.
He looked away, his gaze finding the storm beyond the window. The glass trembled with the wind and the rain, streaks of lightning flashing in his eyes like distant ghosts.
“I thought I knew,” he said at last.
“And now?”
He shook his head, silent for a moment that felt far too long. Then, as if to escape the weight of my question, he turned it back on me.
“Why did you hide in the library?” I smiled faintly, though the memory carried its own kind of ache.
“It was the only place I could go where the noise stopped. Where no one shouted or communicated with their fists. Where no one remembered I existed. I used to tuck myself away in corners with the company of stories. I’d read about love and bravery, about happy endings, even though by the end, I didn’t really believe in them.
” He said nothing, but I could feel the weight of his attention.
It wasn’t pity, though. It was something else. Something deeper.
“Those stories were everything,” I continued softly.
“They took me around the world, back in time, and somewhere into the future. For a little while, I could dream. I could pretend I was the child I never got to be. It became my safe haven, surrounded by worlds of escapism when escape in reality was still years out of reach.”
The fire popped in the hearth, and the sound filled the silence between us. I hadn’t meant to say so much, but the words had slipped out like a confession.
When I finally looked back at him, he hadn’t moved. His eyes followed me, unreadable, but there was a tension in his jaw, a quiet restraint that told me he was holding something back.
“You ever try to run away?” he asked suddenly. His tone wasn’t mocking, just curious. I gave a small, rueful smile.
“More times than I can count. I never got far. I think I just wanted to know what it felt like, to make the choice to leave, even if I didn’t succeed.” He studied me for a long moment, then said,
“You’re stronger than you think, you know.” I blinked, caught off guard.
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t let it break you,” he said simply.
“Most would have turned bitter, but you didn’t. You still see light where others would see nothing but shadow.” I felt the heat rise in my cheeks before I could stop it. Compliments from him were rare, dangerous even, because they always came laced with something that felt too honest.
“I don’t know if that’s strength… Maybe it’s just denial.” I said quietly.
“I don’t think so. You can bury memories, Nessa, but everything that happens to us in this life shapes us and in that, comes a choice.”
“A choice?”
“You can always choose how you wish for those memories to shape you. Many give up and let self-pity consume them… you didn’t.
You just choose to fight harder for the life you wanted, not one dictated by violence or trauma.
You became the hero in your own story.” I couldn’t help but feel the tears fall at this.
He reached out and with the gentlest touch, he swiped them away.
“Why do you cry?”
“Because… because that’s the nicest thing anyone ever said to me.” At this he gave me a soft tender look, as he nodded his head, silently receiving my thanks.
“What about you?” I asked after he took a step back, letting his hand drop from my face as he pulled away.
“Did you ever have a place like this, somewhere you could hide?”
He froze. The question hung between us like a fragile thread, and I instantly regretted pulling it. His eyes darkened, the softness gone, replaced by something impenetrable.
“I don’t hide,” he said at last, his voice low.
“Not anymore.” It wasn’t anger in his tone, it was something colder, something final. I wanted to ask more, to pry open that wall just enough to see what lay beneath it, but one look at him told me he had already shut the door.
The firelight flickered between us, the warmth of it suddenly distant.
I folded my arms against the chill that wasn’t there and turned my gaze back to the books, pretending to read the titles.
But I could still feel his stare on me, heavy and searching, as though he was torn between keeping his distance and stepping closer.
And it was that same quiet tension that followed us when the thunder cracked again, closer this time, and he turned back to the window, his voice quieter.
“Get some rest, Nessa. The storm won’t last forever.”
I wanted to ask him how he could be so sure, but when I looked up, he was already making his way to the door. Ready to leave me with only the rain, the fire, and the echo of his voice. And somewhere deep inside me, I realised I didn’t want the storm to end.
So, I followed him.
Foolish as it maybe, I couldn’t seem to help it. I craved his presence and he… well something in him wanted mine.
He walked me back to my room as he always did, the silence between us thick with unspoken things.
We reached the end of the hall just as another flash came, bright enough to sear the shadows from the walls.
The thunder that followed cracked so violently that it rattled the windows and before I could stop myself, a scream tore from my throat.
In the next instant, I was in his arms.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t even conscious. One moment I was flinching, the next, I was pressed against him, my fingers fisting the fabric of his damp jacket, my cheek against his chest. I could feel the hard rise and fall of his breath, the thunder still echoing faintly through it.
He went rigid, as if unsure whether to push me away or pull me closer. But when I tilted my head back and looked up at him, that hesitation fractured.
“I told you, you shouldn’t look at me like that,” he warned again, his voice deep, low, almost rough.
“Why?” I whispered, breathless. His eyes darkened, the faint glow behind them flickering like lightning caught in shadow.
“You know why.” I shook my head, though my heart was beating so hard I could barely hear the words. Which was when I decided enough was enough. It was time to try and break down those walls completely.
“But what if I don’t want to look at you any other way?”
That was all it took.
In one swift movement, he had me pinned against the wall, his hands braced on either side of my head, the air between us vanishing. His eyes searched mine, wild, hungry, tortured as though he was fighting every part of himself not to move, not to break.
“You play a dangerous game here,” he warned, his voice rough silk, his breath hot against my lips as he lowered them closer.
“Then why are you also playing?” I asked, making him grin before telling me,
“Because you can’t have a hero, without a villain.” I could feel the tremor that ran through him. The restraint and desire locked in a brutal battle, before one gave into the other when his hands slid to my waist, pulling me closer.
“So, you’re the villain?” I asked but then he scoffed lightly as if I had missed the most obvious part about us. A truth I never saw before. A truth he brought to light when he told me,
“No, Nessa…”
“…Your mine.”