Chapter 24
Cora POV
I wake alone, the bed cold beside me, sunlight blazing through the window in sharp golden beams. It blinds me for a moment, and I squint, disoriented. I have no clue what time it is, only that the day feels far too advanced for me to still be abed.
I dress swiftly, tugging on my gown with restless hands, and hurry downstairs.
“There you are,” Soma’s voice startles me as I step into the hall.
“Sorry,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from my face. “I don’t normally sleep in this late.”
She scoffs, waving away my apology with a flick of her hand. “You are the Lady of this house. You don’t need to apologize for anything.” Her tone is firm, almost commanding, as though she refuses to let me forget my new station.
“Right,” I say, hesitating. “So… as Lady of this house, what exactly are my duties?”
“First, you eat,” she replies without missing a beat. “And then we’ll start ticking things off the list.”
I blink at her. “There’s a list?”
Her lips curve into a knowing smile. “Yes. A very long one.”
The weight of her words settles over me, heavy but undeniable. Lady Darkmoor. A title that feels both foreign and inevitable.
Soma leads me into the kitchen, where I eat quickly, the bread still warm but my thoughts already elsewhere. My eyes drift to the crumbling fireplace, its stones cracked and weary, and before I can speak, she notices my gaze.
“That’s one of the things on the list,” she says evenly.
I tilt my head, sensing there’s more. “But…?”
She exhales, folding her arms. “Well, the stable roof needs repair too. And we only have enough manpower to fix one before the first snow arrives.”
Her words settle heavily over me. I pause, weighing the choice. The hearth—without it, cooking becomes near impossible, the heart of the household gone cold. Yet the stables, without shelter, the horses will freeze when winter bites, and without them, travel and defense falter.
It’s a hard decision. Do I choose the ability to feed my people, or the survival of the animals that carry us through war and winter alike?
An idea sparks in my mind, though I’m not certain if it will work. “How many seamstresses are in Nordvaar?” I ask, turning to Soma. “Could we have them make covers for the horses out of fur? That would give them warmth through the winter.”
Soma’s face lights up, her eyes gleaming. “That’s a great idea,” she says, beaming with genuine approval.
Buoyed by her encouragement, I rise to my feet, resolve hardening in me. “Then let’s take a look at that stable roof,” I say, my voice steady with determination.
The stables stretch wide before me, vast and echoing with the restless sounds of hundreds of horses shifting in their stalls. The air is thick with the scent of hay and leather, and shafts of light cut through the gaps in the roof.
Soma walks beside me, pointing out the holes above. “There,” she says, her tone clipped, practical.
I study the damage, then nod. “We can stretch leather over those gaps and pack straw on top,” I suggest, recalling old tricks. “Bastion and I used that method back at the farm. The snow should hold it in place once it settles.”
Soma’s eyes widen, and she scolds herself with a shake of her head. “Why didn’t I think of that?”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Or perhaps you did, and you just wanted me to figure it out?” I tease, arching a brow.
She gasps theatrically, pressing a hand to her chest. “You offend me, my lady.”
Her mock indignation makes me laugh, the tension of responsibility easing for a moment as the horses snort and stamp around us.
“With all honesty, Cora, I didn’t even think of that as a temporary repair,” Soma admits, her voice softer now, stripped of its usual certainty. “There are so many things to take care of here, and I’ve been doing it alone.”
Her words carry the weight of exhaustion, and for a moment I see the strain she hides behind her strength.
“Well,” I say firmly, meeting her gaze, “you’re not alone anymore. I’m here now.” I straighten my shoulders, determination settling over me. “So tell me, what else is on the list?”
We spend a few hours making candles, though it quickly becomes clear this is not Soma’s strength. By the end of it, she has more wax clinging to her hands and gown than to the actual candles themselves. I can’t help but laugh softly, though I bite it back before she notices.
“Garrion and I will have dinner in our room tonight,” I tell her, brushing stray flecks of wax from my fingers.
She nods, but my thoughts drift elsewhere. I haven’t seen him all day, and the absence gnaws at me. What has he been doing? Has his mind wandered to me the way mine keeps circling back to him?
The thought lingers, warm and uncertain, as I imagine his masked face and wonder if, behind it, he thinks of me too.
Mika finds us in the kitchen, his clothes streaked with sweat and dust, his hair damp from exertion. Without hesitation, he pulls Soma into his arms and kisses her openly, without a shred of shame.
“What on earth have you been doing?” I ask, arching a brow at the state of him.
He grins, unrepentant. “Your husband has some built-up aggression, my lady,” he replies, amusement flickering in his eyes.
I shake my head but say nothing more. Instead, I gather a tray of food, balancing it carefully, and make my way to our room.
The door is wide open when I arrive. I step inside and nudge it shut with my foot, the soft thud echoing in the quiet. The scent of steam and soap drifts through the air, and I can hear Garrion moving in the bath beyond the partition.
Setting the tray down on the bed, I smooth the furs and then circle around the divider, anticipation stirring in me as I go to him.
His head rests against the edge of the bath, eyes closed, the steam curling around him like a veil. “I thought we could have dinner in our room,” I say softly, hoping to draw him back to me.
He doesn’t respond. A flicker of worry stirs in my chest. “Are you alright?” I ask, my voice gentler now.
His eyes open, meeting mine. “I’m fine,” he says, but the words ring hollow. I don’t believe him.
I watch the tension in his body, the way he stretches his neck as though trying to ease something knotted deep within. My heart aches at the sight.
I take a clean bath sheet from the shelf and hold it out to him. “Come,” I say, my tone shifting into command. Without waiting for protest, I turn and head toward the bed.
The tray of food is moved to the table across the room, clearing the space. I glance back at him, determination steady in my voice. “Get on the bed and lay on your stomach,” I order, leaving no room for argument.
He obeys without hesitation, stretching out across the bed, his broad frame sinking into the furs. I climb onto him, settling my weight against his back, steady and deliberate.
“What are you doing, Cora?” he asks, his voice low, edged with suspicion and curiosity.
“Shhh,” I hush him, leaning forward so my breath brushes his ear. My hands press firmly against the ridges of his spine, sliding upward with purpose until they reach the tight knots at his shoulders.
He stiffens beneath me, muscles coiled as though bracing for battle even here, in the quiet of our room.
“Relax,” I whisper, my tone both command and comfort. My fingers knead into him, slow and deliberate, working against the tension that clings to him like armor. I feel the strain in every line of his body, the weight of duty etched into his flesh, and I press harder, determined to ease it away.
Bit by bit, I sense him yielding, his breath deepening, the rigid set of his shoulders softening under my touch. For once, he lets me carry the burden, if only for this moment.
I lose track of time as my hands move across his shoulders and back, kneading away the knots of tension that seem carved into him. Slowly, his breathing shifts, deepening, evening out, until I realize he has drifted into sleep beneath my touch.
A soft smile tugs at me. Carefully, I ease off him, mindful not to disturb the fragile peace he’s found. He needs this rest more than he’ll ever admit.
I move quietly through the room, striking flint to wick and lighting more candles. Their glow spreads across the stone walls, chasing away the shadows, wrapping the chamber in a gentle warmth.
Finally, I slip into bed beside him, the flickering light painting his face in gold. I watch him for a moment, the lines of strain softened in sleep, and let myself breathe in the rare stillness.
I wake to the press of Garrion’s lips against my neck, slow and deliberate, each kiss igniting a spark beneath my skin. His hands roam over me with a hunger that makes my breath catch, claiming every curve, every inch, as though he cannot bear the distance of sleep any longer.
“Finally, you are awake,” he murmurs, his voice thick with heat, the words brushing against my ear like fire.
The room is cloaked in complete darkness, the kind that swallows sight and leaves only sensation. I cannot see him, but I don’t need to. His touch is everywhere, his breath warm against my throat, his body pressing close, the weight of him grounding me in the shadows.
In the absence of light, he becomes something elemental, felt rather than seen, and I surrender to the certainty of him moving over me.
His lips move against mine slowly, unhurried, exploring my mouth with a tenderness I have never felt from him before. Each kiss feels deliberate, as though he is relearning me, savoring me, allowing himself to be vulnerable in ways he has always resisted.
In the darkness, I sense it, his mask is gone. Not the physical one, but the barrier he keeps between us, the armor he wears even when he is near. Yet the room is cloaked in shadow, and that tells me he is not ready for me to see him fully. Not yet.
So I do not push. I will wait. This moment, this softness, is already progress. His walls are lowering, piece by piece, and I know that when the time comes, he will show me everything.
For now, I let the darkness hold us, and I let his kiss speak the truths he cannot yet say aloud.
He enters me with a gentleness that steals my breath, no urgency in his movements, no battle in his touch.
Each kiss is tender, lingering, as though he is memorizing me, committing the taste of my lips to memory.
His thrusts follow the same rhythm, slow and deliberate, carrying a softness I have rarely felt from him.
It feels different tonight. Not the hunger of possession, nor the fire of dominance, but something quieter, heavier. As if every touch is a farewell, every caress a silent apology.
In the darkness, I feel the weight of it pressing against me, the unspoken truth that he is leaving tomorrow, that this moment might be the last of its kind for a while. My heart aches with the thought, yet I cling to him, letting his tenderness wash over me, refusing to break the fragile spell.
It feels like he is saying goodbye without words, and so I answer him without words too—by holding him closer, by surrendering to the rhythm of his body, by promising silently that I will remember this gentleness long after the night fades.