CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The journey to Blackwater Ridge would take two days if the weather held.
Lucien insisted they travel with only a small escort. Four guards rode far enough behind to give them privacy while remaining close enough to intervene if trouble found them. Damon had argued for eight.
Lucien settled on four.
Damon settled on complaining.
"If either of you gets yourselves kidnapped," he muttered while tightening the last saddle strap, "I'm resigning before I come rescue you."
"You've threatened to resign for years."
"I've earned the right."
"You'd miss us."
"I absolutely would."
The Beta sighed with theatrical disappointment.
"That's the worst part."
Even Iris smiled.
It was the first time the three of them had stood together without grief filling every silence.
Not because the grief had disappeared.
Because life had quietly made room for something else.
The morning air carried the crisp scent of approaching autumn as they left Silver Ridge behind. Fields stretched across the valley in broad bands of gold and green, broken only by narrow streams that caught the sunlight like polished glass. For the first hour, conversation came easily enough.
Lucien pointed toward a distant farmhouse.
"The old roof finally collapsed."
"I told the owner it would."
"You also told him not to store firewood against the wall."
"He never listens."
"He listens."
Lucien smiled.
"He simply waits until you've been proven right."
She laughed softly.
"I suppose that's his version of an apology."
"It usually is."
The exchange ended naturally, leaving a comfortable silence behind.
Years ago they would have filled it without thinking.
Now neither felt obligated to.
Around midday they stopped beside a shallow river to water the horses. One of the younger guards wandered farther downstream hoping to catch fish while another unsuccessfully attempted to convince Damon that skipping stones required talent rather than luck.
"It absolutely requires talent."
The smooth stone bounced once before sinking immediately.
The young guard folded his arms.
"I choose to interpret that as bad luck."
Damon picked up another.
"It was."
This one skipped twice.
He looked pleased with himself.
The third stone flew backward after slipping from his fingers, splashing directly against his own boots.
Iris covered her mouth.
Lucien looked away, shoulders shaking.
Damon stared at the soaked leather.
"I would appreciate complete silence from both of you."
Neither managed it.
For several precious moments, laughter echoed across the riverbank.
Not loud.
Not endless.
Simply honest.
When the laughter faded, Lucien caught Iris looking at him.
Neither looked away immediately.
The moment lasted only a heartbeat before both returned to unpacking supplies.
Neither mentioned it.
They continued riding through the afternoon.
The road narrowed as it climbed into wooded hills where tall pines shaded long stretches of the trail. Fallen needles softened the sound of hoofbeats, making the forest feel almost unusually still.
Lucien unfolded one of Corwin's copied records while they rode.
"I've been thinking about Garrick."
"The signatures?"
"Yes."
"He appears in too many places."
She considered the pages spread across her saddle.
"But he also appears exactly where someone wants him to."
Lucien glanced toward her.
"You think he's a distraction."
"I think he's either guilty..."
She paused.
"...or conveniently visible."
He nodded slowly.
"I hadn't considered the second possibility."
"You were looking for who changed the records."
"And you?"
"I'm wondering who wanted someone else blamed."
He smiled to himself.
"I was right."
"About what?"
"I do think differently when you're here."
She didn't answer.
Not because she disagreed.
Because she wasn't ready to examine how naturally they still worked together.
Late in the afternoon clouds gathered over the mountains, forcing the group to stop at an abandoned ranger cabin before the rain arrived.
The building had only one room and a narrow porch, but it offered dry shelter and a sturdy fireplace. While the guards settled the horses outside, Lucien carried firewood inside without being asked.
Iris unpacked the cooking supplies.
Neither discussed who would do what.
They simply moved around each other as though no time had passed.
Lucien knelt beside the hearth, coaxing flames to life while Iris measured dried herbs into a pot of broth.
Without looking up, she asked, "Did you eat the bread Agnes packed?"
He hesitated.
She turned.
His expression answered before he could.
"You forgot."
"I was reading."
"You were riding."
"I was reading while riding."
She folded her arms.
"That somehow sounds worse."
A corner of his mouth lifted.
"I know."
She reached into the food bag, broke off half a loaf, and placed it directly into his hand.
"Eat."
He accepted it automatically.
Only after taking the first bite did he stop.
Something about the exchange felt strangely familiar.
He looked at the bread.
Then at her.
Neither spoke.
Neither needed to.
She had done exactly the same thing dozens of times during their marriage.
And he had accepted it with exactly the same absent minded obedience.
The realization settled quietly between them before both returned to preparing supper.
Rain finally arrived after sunset.
It drummed steadily across the roof while the small fire filled the cabin with welcome warmth.
The guards chose to sleep beneath a covered lean to outside, insisting the Alpha and Iris would rest more comfortably indoors.
Damon only shook his head.
"I've slept in worse places."
"You've also complained in worse places," Lucien replied.
"Complaining improves morale."
"I'm fairly certain it improves yours."
"It certainly does."
His voice disappeared into the rain as he closed the cabin door behind him.
Inside, only two bedrolls remained.
Lucien gathered both blankets before holding one out.
"Take this one."
She frowned.
"They're identical."
"They're not."
He unfolded the thicker wool blanket.
"This one's warmer."
"You should keep it."
"I won't."
She looked at him for a moment before accepting it.
"Thank you."
He shrugged lightly.
"You always get cold first."
The words escaped before he could stop them.
Neither commented.
He simply spread the thinner blanket across his own bedroll.
Much later, after the fire had burned low and the rain softened into a gentle rhythm against the roof, Iris lay awake watching orange light flicker across the ceiling beams.
Lucien rested only a few feet away.
Close enough that she could hear the slow, even cadence of his breathing.
She remembered dozens of nights like this from years before.
Long journeys.
Shared campsites.
Conversations that stretched past midnight because they had never run out of things to say.
Tonight they spoke very little.
Yet somehow the silence no longer felt empty.
It felt unfinished.
As though both of them were slowly learning a language they had once spoken fluently and forgotten through years of neglect.
Outside, the rain continued falling.
Inside the little cabin, old habits quietly returned one after another, asking nothing from either of them except to be noticed.
Neither acknowledged them aloud.
Neither needed to.
Some forms of love survived long after the words disappeared.
The harder question was whether those quiet instincts could one day become enough to help them find each other again.