Chapter - A Very Loud Kind of Love
If someone had told me that I would one day stand in a tent that smelled like blood, herbs, and poor decisions, watching a half-dead man argue with the woman who just stitched him back together, while my husband calmly ate grapes like this was evening entertainment, I would have laughed.
Now, I just stand there... staring.
Because nothing about this feels real.
Not Elias, slumped against the wooden beam, pale but still talking like he hasn't just survived something that should have killed him.
Not Veronica, sitting in front of him with blood on her hands and absolute control in her posture, like sewing someone's arm back together is just another task on her list for the morning.
And definitely not the fact that.
They kissed.
I am still stuck on that.
"...since when were you in a relationship?" I ask again, slower this time, like maybe if I say it carefully enough, the answer will come out in a way that makes sense.
Elias blinks at me.
Veronica blinks at me.
Then Veronica very slowly turns her head toward Elias.
The movement is smooth.
Controlled.
Dangerous.
And I realize, with a sudden and very unfortunate clarity, that this is what it looks like right before someone gets in trouble. "You told her," Veronica says, her voice soft in a way that somehow feels more threatening than if she had shouted, "that you were single?"
There's a pause.
Not a small one.
Not a harmless one.
The kind of pause that stretches just long enough for dread to settle in.
Elias does not move.
Not even a little.
Which, in hindsight, is a terrible decision.
"...I never said that," he replies carefully.
Too carefully.
The kind of careful that immediately sounds suspicious.
Veronica stares at him.
I watch her expression shift...not dramatically, not obviously...but just enough that I feel it in my chest like a warning.
And then...
She lifts her hand.
And smacks him.
Hard.
The sound is sharp enough to echo through the tent.
Elias lets out a sound somewhere between a groan and a deeply offended gasp, his entire body flinching as his head jerks forward from the impact.
"I am already injured," he snaps, clutching the back of his head like she has personally betrayed him. "Why are you adding to it?!"
"Because," Veronica replies, her voice rising just enough to reveal the irritation beneath her calm, "you told her you were single."
"I did not," he insists immediately.
"You absolutely did."
"I absolutely did not."
"You let her believe it."
"That is not the same thing."
"That is exactly the same thing."
Elias exhales sharply, shifting slightly against the beam and immediately regretting it as pain flashes across his face.
But even that doesn't stop him. "I never once said the words 'I am single,'" he argues, pointing weakly at her.
"You will not find that statement anywhere.
That is a direct quote. I did not say it. "
She raises her hand again.
Elias flinches so fast it would be impressive if it wasn't also deeply concerning.
"Do not hit me again," he says quickly. "I am in a very delicate condition."
"You have always been in a delicate condition," she replies flatly.
"I am wounded."
"You are dramatic."
"I am missing an eye."
"You still have a spare."
"I would like both."
"That is unfortunate."
I press my lips together.
Because I don't know whether to be horrified.
Or laugh.
And somehow, I am both.
I glance at Achilles.
He has not moved.
Not once.
He is leaning casually against a table, one shoulder resting against it, as if this entire situation is something expected, something routine, something that requires no intervention whatsoever.
There is a vine of grapes in his hand, and he is eating them one by one, slow and deliberate, his expression calm in a way that feels completely at odds with the chaos unfolding in front of him.
"This," he says after a moment, gesturing vaguely toward Elias and Veronica with a grape between his fingers, "is exactly why I told you there was nothing between Veronica and me."
Veronica freezes.
Then turns to him.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Her expression shifts into something that can only be described as deeply offended disbelief.
"You thought.." she begins, then stops, looking at me like I have personally insulted her entire existence. "You thought I would ever...?"
She gestures at Achilles.
Not gently.
Not kindly.
Like, he is something unpleasant she has just discovered stuck to her shoe.
"At him?"
I blink.
"...kind of?"
Her face twists immediately.
"Gross," she says flatly. "Absolutely not."
Achilles raises a brow.
Continues eating.
Unbothered.
"I see him as an annoying younger brother I am forced to tolerate," Veronica continues, her voice filled with conviction. "My standards may be low, but they are not that low."
Elias snorts.
Immediately regrets it.
Clutches his side.
"That's hurtful," he mutters.
"It was accurate."
Achilles hums softly.
Still eating.
Still very clearly entertained.
"And for the record," Veronica adds, clearly not finished, "when I had my first child, he was still learning how to read. I would never entertain a man 15 years younger than me."
I blink.
Wait.
"...you have a child?" I ask.
Veronica looks at me like I have just asked if the sun rises in the morning.
"Yes."
"...how?" I ask before I can stop myself.
There is a pause.
A long one.
Then...
She stares at me.
Elias bursts into laughter.
Immediate regret follows as he winces and clutches his side again, but he doesn't stop.
"Oh, this is incredible," he says, clearly delighted despite the pain. "This is the best thing that has happened to me today."
"You nearly died," Veronica reminds him.
"Yes," he agrees. "And yet, this is still better."
Veronica crosses her arms.
"I'm sure you understand how children are made," she says dryly.
"I do," I say quickly. "That's not what I meant, I just..."
"She's confused about how your children survived to adulthood, we all are," Achille interrupts helpfully.
Veronica slowly turns her head toward him again.
"I am a great mother."
Elias raises a brow.
"Your children are terrified of you."
"They are disciplined."
"They flinch when you enter a room."
"They are respectful."
"They look like they are preparing for war."
"They are prepared."
"They call you 'ma'am' like they are reporting for duty."
"That is proper etiquette."
I stare at them.
"...how old are they?" I ask quietly.
"Early twenties to mid twenties," Veronica replies casually.
I blink.
That somehow makes everything worse.
Because now I am imagining two fully grown adults who are still afraid of their mother, and for some reason That makes complete sense.
Elias sighs dramatically, leaning back against the beam like he hasn't just been stitched back together.
"I cannot believe you are questioning her parenting while I am actively dying," he says.
"You are not dying," Veronica snaps.
"I feel like I am."
"You are being dramatic."
"I am suffering."
"Do it quietly."
The exchange lands in the tent like something rehearsed too familiar, too natural and yet nothing about the scene in front of me feels like it should exist at all.
The air is still thick with the smell of blood and crushed herbs, something sharp and clean layered over something metallic and wrong.
It clings to the back of my throat, heavy enough that every breath feels like work, and I find myself standing at the edge of it all, unsure whether I am witnessing recovery.
.. or something far closer to controlled chaos.
Elias is still slumped against the wooden beam, barely held upright by it, his body a map of violence that has not yet decided if it will heal or break further.
Fresh stitches pull across his skin, dark thread biting into flesh that should not have survived what it endured.
His chest rises unevenly, every breath shallow, but he is still talking.
Of course he is.
Because silence has never suited him.
Veronica, however, is quiet.
And that is what makes her terrifying.
She does not raise her voice. She does not need to.
Every movement she makes is deliberate, controlled, precise in a way that feels less like calm and more like restraint.
Her hands, still faintly stained with his blood, move with unsettling steadiness as she finishes tying off the last stitch along his arm, her focus absolute, her posture composed like she is not holding someone's life together with thread.
"You're pulling too tight," Elias mutters, his voice strained but still laced with that ridiculous humor that refuses to die even when he nearly has.
"I am preventing you from falling apart," she replies flatly.
"I feel like I'm being punished."
"You are."
"I knew it."
Her hand stills.
Not for long.
Just long enough to make him notice.
"You are being punished," she repeats calmly, cutting the thread with a sharp flick of her wrist, "for surviving something you should not have needed to survive in the first place."
Elias blinks.
"...that feels unfair."
Her gaze lifts.
And for a moment
"You don't get to decide what's fair," she says quietly.
The words are not loud.
They are not angry.
But they land harder than anything else she has said.
Elias goes still.
Not completely.
But enough that I see it.
Enough that I understand.
She scares him.
Not in the way enemies do.
Not in the way danger does.
But in a way that feels deeper than that.
And somehow...
That feels worse.
"You scared me," she adds, softer now, but no less controlled.
There is no tremor in her voice.
No crack.
No weakness.
But the words themselves.
They do not belong to someone unaffected.
Elias exhales slowly, his head tipping back against the beam again, the humor in him dimming just enough to let something real slip through.
"...I had it under control."
"You were unconscious."
"I woke up."
"You shouldn't have had to."
Silence settles.
Heavy.
Unavoidable.
Then..
Elias, because he is incapable of letting anything remain serious for too long..
"...in my defense," he says carefully, "I looked very impressive while doing it."
Her expression does not change.
But her hand moves.
Fast.
The slap echoes.
Sharp.
Final.
I flinch.
Elias lets out a strangled sound of betrayal.
"I am already injured!" he snaps, clutching his head. "Why do you keep attacking me?!"
"Because," she replies, her tone still calm, still even, "you continue to speak."
"That feels like a personal attack."
"It is."
"I am suffering."
"Shut up"
I press my lips together.
Because I should not laugh.
I should not.
And yet..
Something inside me softens.
Just slightly.
Just enough.
Behind me, Achilles shifts.
The sound is quiet.
But it changes everything.
He steps forward, slow and deliberate, his presence filling the space without effort, without noise.
There is something inherently dangerous about the way he moves like a predator that does not need to rush because nothing escapes it anyway.
His gaze flicks briefly over Elias, assessing, calculating, then moves past him
To Veronica.
She does not look at him immediately.
She finishes what she is doing.
Wipes her hands clean.
Then turns.
"If I may make a request."
His brow lifts slightly.
A pause.
Then
"Go on."
She meets his eyes.
And for the first time
There is something there that feels personal.
Cold.
Sharp.
"The blonde one," she says. "He is mine."
Achilles studies her for a moment.
"Personal?"
She tilts her head slightly, considering.
"Yes. He is the reason I have to tolerate a pirate."
From behind her, Elias manages..
"A very handsome pirate..."
She does not even turn.
Her hand moves back blindly.
And hits him again.
Hard.
"Do not speak."
"I am contributing."
"You are concussed."
"That's not medically proven."
"Do not make me test it."
"...noted."
Achilles watches all of this with quiet interest, like none of it surprises him, like this is expected.
"You want him alive?" he asks.
Veronica smiles.
It is not human.
It is not kind.
It is not anything that resembles mercy.
"Yes."
A pause.
"Very."
Something cold settles in my chest.
Because I believe her.
Because I understand, in a way I do not want to, that whatever she does to him...
It will not be quick.
Elias exhales.
"...I almost feel bad for him."
"No you don't."
"...no," he admits. "I don't."
Achilles nods once.
Decision made.
"Don't take too long."
Her smile sharpens.
"I won't."
Then.
She turns.
To me.
And everything changes.
The air shifts.
The weight of the room tilts.
Because the way she looks at me.
Is different.
Not softer.
Not weaker.
But...
Focused.
Assessing.
Dangerously aware.
"You," she says.
I freeze.
"Sit."
It is not a suggestion.
It is not a request.
It is an order.
And for reasons I cannot fully explain.
I obey.
Immediately.
Because I am not afraid of Achilles anymore.
Not the way I should be.
Not the way everyone else is.
But her..
There is something about her that feels unpredictable in a way that is far more dangerous.
I sit.
She nods once, satisfied, then moves closer, crouching slightly in front of me. Her gaze sweeps over me in a way that feels almost clinical, like she is cataloging every injury, every shift in posture, every breath I take.
"I'm fine," I say quietly.
She does not respond.
She simply reaches for my wrist.
And I flinch.
It is small.
Barely there.
Her grip does not tighten.
Does not force.
But it does not retreat either.
"I am not going to hurt you," she says calmly.
I swallow.
"I know."
"Then stop reacting like that."
There is no softness in it.
No comfort.
Just expectation.
Just logic.
And somehow
Her hands move efficiently, cleaning the wounds, rewrapping them with far more care than the previous bindings ever had, her touch firm but controlled, never lingering, never unnecessary.
"You are not allowed to ignore injuries," she says.
"I wasn't.."
"You were."
"I didn't want to..."
"You do not get to decide that."
I blink.
Because the words are sharp.
But they are not cruel.
They are...
Correct.
"You are not just yourself," she continues, her tone unwavering. "You are responsibility. You are position. You are leverage. You do not get to break quietly and pretend it does not matter."
My throat tightens.
"I understand."
"Good."
She finishes the bandage.
Then moves to my shoulder.
Then my side.
Then my back.
Each movement precise.
Each touch purposeful.
No hesitation.
No unnecessary comfort.
And yet.
It feels like care.
The kind that does not ask if you deserve it.
The kind that simply exists.
"You will rest," she says finally.
"I don't..."
"You will."
There is no arguing with her.
Not really.
Behind us, Elias groans dramatically.
"I would like to point out that I am also in need of care."
"You are alive."
"Barely."
"Still counts."
"I feel neglected."
"You are not the priority."
"I should be."
"You are not."
He sighs.
Deeply.
"...this is abuse."
She ignores him.
Completely.
Then stands.
Turning back toward Achilles.
"We need to will deal with the problem outside," she says.