Chapter 10- The Things He Keeps Hidden
Three weeks pass so quickly that I almost do not notice them slipping through my fingers.
Not because they are uneventful quite the opposite.
Every day feels full. Full of movement, of laughter, of things I once only imagined existed beyond the walls that confined me.
I walk through markets where people barter loudly over fruit and fabrics, where children run freely between stalls, where no one lowers their voice when I pass because they do not recognize me as anything other than a woman wandering beside her husband.
I taste foods I have never seen before, feel fabrics softer than anything I have worn, and watch the world exist without fear pressing into every corner of it.
At night, I return to the manor with tired feet and a lightness in my chest that feels almost unfamiliar. I fall asleep beside him no longer rigid, no longer waiting for something terrible to happen but resting, truly resting, in a way I did not know my body knew how to do.
It should feel like freedom.
And for a while—
It does.
But slowly...
Something begins to change.
It begins quietly, almost gently, like something testing the edges of me before deciding to stay.
At first, I think it is just exhaustion.
We have been moving constantly walking, exploring, climbing, existing in a way my body is not used to. My muscles ache in places I did not know could ache. My legs grow tired faster than they should. There is a heaviness in my limbs that feels earned, that makes sense.
But then it lingers.
It does not fade with sleep.
It does not ease when I rest.
It stays.
Settling deeper.
Mornings become slower. I wake with a weight pressing down on me, not painful but persistent. My body feels heavier, as though something inside me is pulling at every movement, making even simple things require more effort than they should.
I ignore it.
At first.
Tell myself it is nothing.
That I am simply adjusting to a different life.
But by the third week...
I am tired.
Not the kind of tired that disappears after a night's sleep. The kind that settles into your bones and stays there.
So I stop pushing.
Not completely.
But enough.
I trade wandering streets for quiet corners. Trade long days of exploration for stillness. For rest.
And somehow...That feels right too.
The garden becomes my refuge.
It reminds me of the castle, but without the suffocating weight that came with it. Open. Quiet. Alive in a way that asks nothing of me except that I exist within it.
I walk slowly through it, a book resting loosely in my hands. My fingers brush absently over the pages, but I am not really reading. My thoughts drift too easily, my focus slipping away before it can settle.
The air is warm.
Soft.
Carrying the faint scent of flowers and something earthy beneath it.
For a while, I simply follow the paths.
Letting my feet guide me instead of my thoughts. And that is how I get lost.
Not in a way that frightens me.
Not in a way that sends panic racing through my chest.
Just... quietly.
One path turns into another.
Then another.
The carefully shaped garden begins to unravel into something wilder, less controlled. The grass grows thicker, less trimmed. The flowers become sparse, replaced by taller trees and uneven ground.
The light changes.
Softens.
Dims slightly as branches weave together overhead.
I slow.
Blinking as I look around.
The realization settles gently.
I should turn back.
I know I should.
But then I hear it.
A sound.
Soft.
Faint.
Someone humming. It drifts through the trees like something half-remembered, something that pulls at me without permission.
I hesitate.
Only for a moment.
Then I follow it.
Carefully at first, stepping over roots and uneven patches of earth, my movements slower now as my body reminds me of its growing exhaustion. My hand presses lightly against a tree once or twice for balance, my breath steady but heavier than it should be.
The sound grows clearer.
Closer.
And then
I see him.
Achilles.
He sits on a fallen log beside a natural spring, steam rising gently from the surface of the water as it pools between smooth stones. The air around it is warmer, carrying a quiet calm that feels entirely separate from everything else.
His back is to me.
Water still trails down his skin from his hair, dark strands damp and pushed back, the droplets catching the light as they move along the lines of his shoulders and spine.
His clothes are folded neatly to the side, placed with the same precision he applies to everything even here, where no one is watching.
For a moment...
I don't move.
I just look.
My teeth catch lightly against my lip before I can stop it, my gaze lingering just a second longer than it should.
Then I step forward.
A twig snaps beneath my foot.
The sound is small...
But his reaction is not.
He turns instantly, body tensing before his mind even catches up. His hand moves slightly, instinctive, ready for something that isn't there.
Then his eyes land on me.
And everything shifts.
The tension eases.
completely.
"What are you doing out here?" he asks.
His voice is calm.
Controlled.
But I can hear the edge beneath it.
The part of him that is always alert.
Always watching.
"I got lost," I admit softly.
His gaze sharpens slightly.
"...how?"
"The garden has too many paths," I say, as if that explains everything.
He exhales quietly.
Not quite a sigh.
But close.
And then—
I notice it.
The sketchbook in his hands.
The way he closes it quickly.
Too quickly.
My brow lifts.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Nothing."
The answer comes too fast.
Too sharp.
I tilt my head.
"...nothing?"
"Yes."
I step closer.
He shifts slightly.
Subtle.
But telling.
"You're hiding something."
"I am not."
"You are."
"I am not."
I pause.
"Can I see it?"
"No."
Immediate.
Firm.
Final.
Which only makes me more curious.
"Why not?"
"I'd rather you didn't."
That makes me blink Because Achilles does not avoid things.He does not hide.And yet...Here he is.Looking almost...Uncomfortable.
"Please?" I ask softly.
He looks away.
"...no."
"Please," I repeat, stepping closer, my tone lighter now, almost teasing. "I just want to see what my husband does when he disappears into the woods instead of ruling his kingdom."
He gives me a look.
"I am still ruling my kingdom."
"From a forest?"
"Yes."
"That sounds very efficient."
He exhales.
This time It is a sigh.
"...Ophelia."
"Please."
He relents.
"...fine."
He hands it to me without looking at me. Which only makes it worse. I take it carefully and sit beside the log, leaning lightly against it as I open the pages.
I still.
Because the first drawing takes my breath away.
It's me.
On our wedding day.
Every detail is there the way the fabric falls, the delicate patterns stitched into it, the exact expression on my face. It is so precise, so vivid, that it feels less like a drawing and more like a memory trapped on paper.
I turn the page.
Another.
Me.
On the throne.
Another.
In the garden with Elias.
Another.
At a window one I do not even remember standing at.
But he does.
Because he was there.
Watching.
Always watching.
My chest tightens as I continue flipping through them, each page revealing another moment I did not know he had kept.
And then
The last one.
My breath catches.
It's from this morning.
The bed.
The light.
It feels...
Intimate.
Private.
I look up at him slowly.
He scratches the back of his head.
"...sorry," he mutters.
And I laugh.
Soft.
Warm.
"For a man who hates romance stories," I say, closing the book gently, "you act exactly like your in one." He groans.
"I do not."
"You disappear into the woods to draw your wife."
"That is not the same thing."
"It is exactly the same thing."
"It is not," he insists, sitting up straighter now. "They draw random women they are obsessed with."
"And you?"
"I am drawing my WIFE."
I tilt my head.
"That sounds the same."
"It is not."
"It is."
He groans again.
"This is why I did not want you to see them."