Circling the Same Wound #3
He exhaled, pressed her hand to his chest. “The only thing that matters right now is—do you want to marry me, Helen? Before the baby comes?”
Helen nodded, climbing into his arms with desperate affection. “Of course I do.”
He held her close, even as a dull and heavy shadow settled inside his chest. He’d proposed without flowers, fanfare, or joy—just urgency and fear. But now, the doubt pressed in, quiet and sharp—was she saying yes because she wanted a life with him... or because it was the only path left to walk?
Some questions were better left unanswered.
“When will you speak to my father?” Helen asked softly.
Nic groaned. “Soon. I’ll find an evening. Maybe next week. Assuming I survive training long enough to ask for a night off.”
He knocked back the last of the willow bark tea, wishing—deeply, violently—that it had a shot of something stronger. He stared out the window, saw the night creeping in like cold water.
Helen tidied the untouched food, then returned and gently stroked his head. “Will you stay?”
“Here?”
“There’s no one else around. Just us.”
He had no reason to decline, and he was not looking for one. He yearned to spend a night with Helen, even if only to wrap his body around her and sleep. He took her hand and pushed away from the table. “Shall we?”
Helen led him through the quiet sitting room, past portraits and polished furniture, and down the long hall.
She paused at the threshold of one of the large bedrooms—her own, clearly.
The bed was as elegant as he’d imagined: wide, lavish, dressed in soft linens, its carved headboard glowing lush in the lamp’s gentle light.
As she drew the curtains closed and struck the match to the lamp, Nic seized the moment.
He pulled her onto the bed in a tumble of laughter and limbs.
He nuzzled against her throat, pressing a kiss just beneath her ear. “I do believe this is a first.”
“First?” she asked, already breathless.
His fingers slid up her waist with exaggerated slowness. “Our first proper bed,” he whispered, tracing the shape of her breast with a teasing touch.
“I thought you were tired,” she said, squealing as he stretched lazily against her.
“I am,” he sighed, grinning as he tugged her down atop him. “Let me rest. You’re my favorite blanket.”
She purred, straddling his hips, and leaned in to kiss him—slow and deep, full of promise.
Her lips were soft, tasting faintly of honeyed wine and defiance.
His hands roamed her waist, the silk of her shift dress whispering under his fingers.
But silk was never enough. He needed the heat of her skin.
When she sat back, the sorrow in her eyes had vanished. She looked down at him with hunger and amusement, and took her time peeling her dress over her head. Lace slipped from her shoulders and drifted to the floor like the last leaf of autumn.
He reached up, cupping the swell of her breasts in his calloused palms. “You’re unreal,” he whispered, wonder mixing with desire. “Let me worship you.”
She leaned forward, and he brought his mouth to her breast, kissing, licking, grazing her with teeth until her fingers curled in his hair. His hands roamed lower, shaping the softness of her backside, coaxing her into motion.
She began to move against him slowly, deliberately, and Nic’s breath caught. The rhythm was theirs alone, made of memory and longing and all the nights he’d wanted her but couldn’t.
Helen’s fingers went to the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in her haste. He rose to help her, shrugging out of sleeves, baring skin inch by inch. She kissed down his chest as she pushed his trousers low, and then they were tangled together again, beneath the golden lamplight.
The press of her body against his own set him ablaze. He kissed her mouth hungrily, pulled her hips to his, desperate now. “If I don’t feel you soon—”
And then she took him into her, and he lost all words.
She moved with a kind of grace that made the world fall away.
Her breath hitched against his neck, her hips circling, rising, falling, riding the crest of something primal and sacred.
He held her, anchored her, lost in the tide of her pleasure.
She gasped his name as her body clenched around him, and he held on as she cried out, trembling in his arms.
For a moment, neither of them moved. She collapsed atop him, breath warm on his collarbone, hair spilling like sunlit silk across his chest. His heart pounded so hard it echoed in his bones. He was still inside her. Still shaking. Still hers.
When she finally rose, her eyes were wild and bright, her body radiant. She looked like something out of legend. A goddess ravishing a mortal man. He didn’t belong in her world, but he would make her his.
She began to move again, slow and purposeful. Every rise and fall was a promise, a vow, a question he couldn’t answer except with his body. He filled his hands with her breasts, worshipped the lines of her face, and drowned in her eyes. Their bodies moved together in reverence, in need, in joy.
When he came, it was not a peak but a surrender. He clutched her against him and let go in deep, shuttering gasps.
Afterward, they lay quiet and breathless in the hush that followed the storm. Helen tucked herself against him, a contented sigh ghosting across his chest.
Nic stroked her back, traced the curve of her spine, and pressed his lips to her temple. He breathed her in—her warmth, her scent, the mingled salt of sweat and desire. His hand drifted to her belly, and in the soft pull of sleep, he wondered what lay in their future.
The days bled into each other, heat, sweat, aching limbs. The rigorous sparring under torchlight, the blades casting fitful shadows against the training yard. Sweat stung his eyes. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d eaten something that didn’t taste like dirt or urgency.
“Again,” one captain barked.
Nic raised his sword. His arms trembled with the effort.
Later, when the others slumped gratefully into benches for a hasty meal, Nic sat in silence, grinding a pebble beneath his boot just to stay awake. He caught himself staring through the firelight, searching for a figure he wouldn’t find.
Helen.
He hadn’t seen her since that night in the villa. And in the haze of fatigue, she drifted further away, like a dream he barely remembered having.
He scrubbed a hand down his face.
There was no room in his head for sweet words or reckless plans. Not with Jacob looming like a wall he didn’t know how to scale. Not when his body felt moments from collapse.
Each night as he fell into his bed, the sky already streaked pale with dawn, all he could manage was one last thought—fragmented and sour—
Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow he’d figure out what to say to Jacob.
Nearly two weeks after Helen’s trembling confession, a folded missive bearing her name arrived at the end of a brutal training day.
The captains had pushed them to the brink again, and Nic’s hands still shook from sword drills.
He didn’t stop to change. The note said urgent.
And if something had happened—if her parents knew—he wasn’t going to wait for sleep to make it worse.
By the time he reached the villa, his shirt was stuck to his back with sweat, and he smelled like every mile he’d walked. He barely raised his fist to knock before the door yanked open.
Helen stood there, eyes red-rimmed, her whole body tight with the kind of sorrow that made the ground pitch beneath him. Panic hurtled to the back of his throat.
He shut the door behind him fast. “Are you alright? What’s happened? Did your parents find out?”
“No,” she said quickly, “they don’t know anything.”
His chest rose and fell once, sharp and shallow. Relief was there, but it tangled messily with dread. He walked her to the sitting room and collapsed into a chair, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
“I’m so tired, Helen,” he muttered. “Can you please just tell me why I’ve been summoned?”
She sat across from him, small and shivering in the armchair, her fingers twisting into her dress. “You don’t have to ask my father anymore.”
He straightened slowly. “We’ve had this talk, Helen.”
“I mean—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t have a reason to anymore.”
Silence pressed between them.
Then he asked—too loud in the quiet—“What do you mean?”
She broke. “The reason is gone!” she gasped, tears surging. “I—I started bleeding last night.”
The blow landed soundlessly, but it shook the floor beneath him. He slid from his chair, kneeling before her. “The baby...”
Helen nodded.
His arms wrapped around her automatically as he pulled her into his chest, nuzzling her hair. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Truly. Are you alright? My mother always said women can fall terribly ill when...”
“I was feeling unwell for a few days. But I’m better now.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
She shook her head, slow and hopeless. Then, her voice came softly, “At least now you don’t have to ask. We can forget this whole thing happened.”
He froze.
She was still in his arms, but the words rang like she’d shoved him across the room. He wanted to believe she meant something else—anything else—but she was looking at him like she’d already let go.
“Why do you keep saying that?” His voice was quiet—but hard.
Helen stiffened. “Saying what?”
“That we don’t have a reason to marry anymore.” His volume was rising fast, past the point of self-control. “I still intend to marry you. Or did that not register the first ten times I said it?”
“I never said I didn’t—”
“You’ve said everything but!” He released her and stood, pacing. “Every time you bring it up, it’s like you’re waiting for me to take it back! What exactly do you think I’m here for, Helen, a tea party?”
Her voice cracked. “I never said that!”
“You didn’t have to!”
She stood, and now they were both shouting.
He caught her wrist before she could storm past him. “Why’d you say the reason is gone, then? Why did it sound like relief?”
She stared at him, horrified. “How can you say that?”
“It’s true!” he snapped. “You don’t want to be bound to a man who sleeps in a shared room and can’t afford socks without pocket money from his parents! And now that you’re not carrying his child, you’re free, aren’t you?”
“No, Nic!” she shouted, tears returning. “I’m relieved for you! No more obligation! You don’t have to tie your future to me out of pity or honor!”
That hit him harder than the loss, like she had thrown a hammer through a pane of glass. “Obligated,” he repeated softly. “You really think that’s what I’ve been doing?”
“I know what kind of man you are. You wouldn’t walk away. You’d shoulder the weight and pretend it was never heavy.”
His hands curled into fists. He didn’t yell again. He didn’t trust his voice not to splinter.
He folded his arms, jaw clenched, and studied her as though she were a stranger. Maybe the reason she couldn’t believe he loved her was because she didn’t love him back. Not enough to imagine a life together that wasn’t forced by circumstance.
His skin itched with dried sweat and frustration. He could smell the training field on himself and the bitterness building like grit behind his teeth. They were going to keep tearing into each other. Circling the same wound until neither of them could stand.
“I need to go,” he said at last. His voice flat and drained.
He looked at her—really looked—but didn’t step closer.
She was crying again, and he should have gone to her. Should have held her, or said something soft to fix what broke between them. But he couldn’t.
Not tonight.
“We’re called in early tomorrow.”
He left before she could respond. Left her crying in the room where he’d first imagined they might build a life.
The night air felt brittle as he walked. His heart’s lake was too cold to offer her comfort. Too bitter to stay.
And somewhere, buried under anger and sweat and everything he hadn’t let himself feel yet, a terrible new grief was waiting.
But perhaps it didn’t matter, at least not right now. The captains were summoning the recruits for some kind of examination in the morning. Maybe by the end of tomorrow, they would all be returning to the mundane lives they had left behind.