Arun

  It’s not the morning light that wakes me up, but rather… the ache in my knees. I blink into the dim room, the heavy curtains drawn tight, and for a moment I can’t remember what happened last night.

  Then it hits.

  Alexios before me, blood at the corner of his mouth, the bewildered look in his eyes when I…

  My breath catches and I slam my eyes shut, facepalming as I lean back into the pillow again. Why did I drop to my knees like that? What drove me to lean forward, tongue out, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for us?

  It’s a blur. Heat and hunger tangled in a way that just doesn’t make sense. The taste of the blood lingers faintly on my tongue even now, like it’s trying to tease me.

  Was it really his blood? Or… someone else’s?

  No.

  No, it couldn’t have been.

  I push myself upright, rubbing my temples, the thought burrowing deep like a thorn. There’s a strange pull in my chest when I think of him, as though some part of me still kneels there, waiting for… what?

  Permission?

  A sharp knock at the door startles me.

  “Sir, your morning bath is ready,” a servant’s voice calls through the wood. “Breakfast will follow.”

  I swallow hard and try to summon some kind of composure.

  “I’ll be down shortly,” I manage, though my voice feels raw in my throat.

  Footsteps retreat down the hall, leaving me alone again with the questions I can’t seem to answer.

  The more I let my mind think about it, the more questions I have. I should get up, start the day, speak to him perhaps. Will things be different? Awkward?

  Eventually, I get up and find the servant so I can follow her through the winding corridors of the manor. The air is heavy with the faint scent of polished wood and beeswax. My bare feet make no sound on the rugs, but every creak of the floorboards under the servant’s shoes makes me feel like an intruder in my own skin.

  The bath chamber is quite beautiful, with its stone walls and steam curling up from the marble tub. Two more servants wait inside, already rolling up their sleeves.

  They politely lower their eyes as I walk forward. I stop just over the threshold with my fingers knotted together. Even with my years, I’ve never liked being undressed before strangers. Especially here, in a place where I’m still a guest… or perhaps something more precarious than that.

  One of them steps forward.

  “Shall we?”

  I clear my throat, glancing away.

  “Would it be possible for… Alexios to attend instead?”

  The name comes out softer than I mean for it to. There’s the faintest pause before the first servant answers that Alexios is occupied in his study. Important work, according to the servant.

  I nod quickly, too quickly, as if I’ve been caught asking something foolish.

  “Right. I understand.”

  They begin unfastening the ties of my robe with careful hands and I stare at the rippling water in the tub, trying not to think about how last night’s confusion burns in my mind more now that he’s absent.

  As the robe slides from my shoulders, cool air rushes over my bare skin and it makes me want to fold in on myself. I lower my eyes, willing my thoughts to drift anywhere but here, anywhere but to the sensation of their hands or the memory of kneeling before Alexios.

  The nearest servant gestures to the tub.

  “Please, sir. The water is warm.”

  I step in and the heat curls around my legs. It’s a sharp contrast to the chill of the stone floor and almost enough to make me exhale in relief, but the presence of the two attendants keeps my shoulders tight. One kneels at my side with a basin of scented water, another with a soft cloth and the thought of them washing me makes my pulse quicken for the wrong reasons.

  “I… I can manage,” I murmur, reaching for the cloth myself.

  They exchange glances but step back, bowing their heads slightly in deference. Steam clings to my hair and lashes as I sink lower, the water lapping against my collarbones.

  The scent of the lavender soap somehow reminds me of last night’s heat too and how close I was to Alexios. The metallic tang of blood seemed to dull every other sense. My hand stills mid-swipe, cloth pressed against my chest.

  What was it that drew me to him in that moment?

  Hunger?

  Curiosity?

  Something else entirely?

  I scrub harder than I need to as if I can erase the taste from my tongue and the pull from my chest. The water clouds faintly beneath the surface and I wonder if I’d even recognize him in the same way when I see him again or if he’ll look at me as though nothing happened.

  When I finish, they bring the towel, eyes still lowered, and I dry myself quickly, tying the robe they offer with unnecessary precision.

  As they lead me back upstairs to my room to dress, I glance once down the hallway toward the study and wonder if he knows I asked for him… and whether he refused to come.

  --

  The dining hall is quiet, save for the scrape of cutlery and the faint crackle of the hearth. Alexios is already seated at the far end of the long table, dressed impeccably as always, with a book closed neatly beside his plate.

  He looks up as I enter, offering a faint smile.

  “Morning, love.”

  I murmur a greeting back and take the seat nearest to him, though the length of the table could easily hold six more between us. Servants glide in and out, laying out fresh bread, cheese, and a pot of tea. I watch him slice into a piece of fruit as if nothing at all has shifted between us since last night.

  I try to eat in silence, but the weight in my chest presses harder with each passing moment. Finally, I set my cup down.

  “Alexios… can I ask you something?”

  His eyes flick toward me briefly, then back to his plate.

  “Of course you can.”

  The words come out before I can stop them.

  “Are you a vampire?”

  His knife stills for half a heartbeat and then resumes its steady work.

  “No,” he says plainly. “You’ve seen me in the sun more than once and eating mortal food, remember?”

  It’s true. The memories of us walking around Baldur’s Gate together in the sunlight, shopping in the markets and dining at taverns flood my mind.

  But last night…

  That was not normal.

  “Then the bloo-”

  He cuts me off smoothly, his tone even.

  “An injury. Nothing more.”

  His gaze finally meets mine, calm but unreadable, as he continues speaking.

  “I was practicing a spell. It didn’t work as intended.”

  I search his face for some crack in his story or some trace of last night’s heat and hunger reflected at me. There’s nothing. Only the self-confidence of someone who has decided exactly how much I’m allowed to know.

  “And this magic you were practicing,” I press, “What sort was it?”

  “A small experiment,” he answers, as if it were of no consequence. “More tedious than dangerous.” He tilts his head, studying me with a faint smile. “But why dwell on my failings when there are far better things to occupy our morning?”

  It’s a graceful deflection and he leaves me no room to push without seeming quite obnoxious.

  I sit back, forcing myself to take another bite of bread, though the taste feels hollow. His voice has that easy lilt he apparently likes to use when he’s trying to charm people out of asking difficult questions.

  Alexios sets down his knife and reaches for the teapot, refilling my cup with unhurried precision.

  “You’ll want your strength today,” he says lightly, as if the last exchange hadn’t happened. “I thought we might visit the southern fields before it gets a bit cool outside. They’re worth seeing this time of year.”

  “The gardens,” I repeat, my tone flatter than I intend.

  He nods, folding his napkin neatly.

  “There’s an old fountain there I think you’d like. Marble work from Felcren City that I had installed here. It’s remarkable craftsmanship.”

  I force a nod though the unease in my chest hasn’t eased at all. He moves on to speaking of things I don’t think he truly cares about and I answer automatically, my mind still caught on the taste of last night and the way he’d looked at me before I leaned in.

  If he’s playing a game, he’s playing it a bit too well.

  --

  The air outside is warm, touched with the scent of damp earth and green things. Alexios walks a step ahead of me down a gravel path that curves between long, orderly rows of plants. The morning sun glances off the dew still clinging to the leaves, and the quiet hum of insects fills the space between us.

  “These are Woundworts,” Alexios says, gesturing to the first row. “Some of our plants are dangerous in the wrong hands, but invaluable in the right ones. We sell this row mostly to apothecaries, but the leaves have other uses as well.”

  The land rolls gently away, each section planted with something different. Aadarna with its stiff oval leaves, pale Athelas flowers trembling in the breeze and neat beds of rosemary and lavender. The sheer scale of it is dizzying.

  “You could cure the continent with this stuff,” I murmur, eyes wide.

  “Or poison it,” he says with a sly smile. “That’s why we choose our buyers carefully. Eventually I’m hoping to expand even more so that the entire Moving Waters region is under Blackwood.”

  We pass under an arbor draped with climbing vibes and the sweet scent of honeysuckle catches in the air. I slow my pace, trying to take everything in at once like the colors and the faint rustle of leaves in the wind.

  Alexios glances back over his shoulder, his mouth curling into a faint smirk.

  “So… are you still convinced I’m a vampire?”

  Heat creeps into my face before I can stop it.

  “I was just… asking.”

  “Oh, I remember.” He stops beside a bed of sage, leaning casually against the low stone edging. “The way you said it. You were so certain as if you’d caught me in the act and yet here I am, in full daylight, not bursting into flames.”

  I look away, pretending to examine the silvery leaves.

  “It was a fair question.”

  “Mm,” he hums, clearly enjoying himself. “Perhaps, but now I’ll be wondering what other theories you have about me, Arun.”

  I try to hide my smile, but his eyes catch it anyway.

  We move on and the path narrows as the rows of plants give way to a wilder stretch of the estate. Here, the beds are edged with rough-hewn stone and the air feels cooler beneath the partial shade of olive trees. The sound of the wind in the leaves is softer here, almost secretive.

  Alexios slows his pace until we’re walking side by side. His earlier smirk has faded into something gentler, his eyes tracking the way I glance around as if storing every sight for later.

  “You like it here,” he says quietly. It’s not a question.

  “I do,” I admit, brushing my fingertips over the drooping white flowers of a valerian plant. “It’s… peaceful. Unexpected.”

  We step into a small clearing at the end of the path, where a weathered stone bench sits half-hidden by lavender bushes. Beyond it, the land drops away into a slow slope of golden grass and scattered trees. No one else is around.

  Alexios stops, his gaze lingering on me a little too long.

  “May I?”

  I blink.

  “May you…?”

  His lips curve faintly.

  “May I hold your hand?”

  The request catches me off guard. I search his face expecting to see some trace of mockery, but there’s none. Just that steady, unblinking focus he turns on me when he’s waiting for an answer that matters to him.

  I nod once, a bit hesitantly. His fingers slide into mine with a warmth that feels almost out of place in the cool air. He doesn’t squeeze my hand. He only holds it as if testing the shape of the gesture between us. It’s rather… soothing.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  “See?” he murmurs, a shadow of that earlier teasing in his tone. “Completely harmless.”

  Yet my pulse feels anything but steady.

  Alexios guides me toward the bench, our joined hands still between us. We sit, the stone cool beneath us, the lavender brushing our knees when the wind stirs. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I watch the way the sunlight turns the tips of the grass below to pale gold.

  Then, without looking at me, he asks, “Did you enjoy it?”

  I turn my head, caught off guard. “Enjoy… what?”

  “The kiss.” His voice is low, almost conversational, as if he were asking whether I liked the wine at supper. “Last night.”

  Heat prickles at the back of my neck.

  “I…” My voice falters. I don’t know how to answer without revealing more than I should.

  He glances at me then, tilting his head just slightly.

  “It’s a simple question, Arun. Yes… or no?”

  My fingers curl tighter around his before I can stop myself.

  “It wasn’t… what I expected,” I say at last, which is the safest truth I can manage.

  Alexios’s eyes linger on me for a long moment, searching, as though he could read the unspoken parts in the set of my mouth or the way I can’t quite meet his gaze. Then he leans back, releasing my hand with deliberate slowness.

  “Unexpected,” he repeats softly, as if tasting the word. “That can be good… or dangerous.”

  Alexios’s words hang in the air between us and the quiet hum of nature is the only sound for several heartbeats.

  I stare at my hands in my lap, fingers still tingling from where his had been. My throat feels tight, but the words come anyway, almost in a whisper.

  “I… liked it.”

  His head turns slightly, the barest shift, but I feel the weight of his attention sharpen.

  “Did you?” The softness in his tone makes the question feel far more dangerous than if he’d pressed me with a smirk.

  I nod, still not looking at him. “Yes.”

  For a moment, he doesn’t respond. There’s just the warmth of his presence beside me. Then his voice comes, but it’s so low that I have to strain to hear it.

  “I thought you might.”

  When I finally glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but there’s something in his eyes. Maybe it’s a glint of satisfaction or even curiosity. It makes my chest tighten a bit.

  “Good,” he says at last, as though filing the admission away for later use.

  The breeze shifts, carrying the scent of crushed lavender between us, and I can’t help wondering what I’ve just given him by saying it.

  We leave the bench behind, the path narrowing again as we walk deeper into the plantation. The air feels warmer here, the sun higher, but there’s a strange stillness in this part of the field.

  There’s no rows of crops or neat lines. It’s just tall grasses swaying lazily and a scatter of wildflowers in white and pale yellow. It’s beautiful in a way that the cultivated beds aren’t. The area is untouched and almost hidden from view.

  Alexios slows and then stops entirely.

  “Wait here,” he says softly. There’s no edge to his voice though. Just a calm tone that leaves no room for question.

  I watch as he steps off the path and into the grass, moving with a bit of careful deliberation that I’ve seen a few times from him in our shared time together on the journey to the plantation. He crouches near something half-hidden at the base of a small rise and only when I shift a little can I see it: a stone no bigger than my hand, weathered smooth, set upright in the soil.

  A grave marker?

  Alexios plucks a single flower from the wild growth around him, twirling it once between his fingers before placing it gently against the stone. He lingers there, head bowed, with one hand resting lightly on his knee.

  The breeze catches his hair and for a heartbeat I think I see him draw in a deep, slow breath almost like he’s steadying himself.

  When he finally stands and turns back toward me, the sun catches his face just so and I swear I see thin, glistening lines at the corners of his eyes, but he quickly blinks away.

  By the time he reaches me again, his expression is composed, his voice as even as ever.

  “Shall we?” he asks, as though nothing had happened at all.

  But I can’t unsee the way his lashes had clung together or the way he’d walked away from that small stone as if leaving a part of himself behind.

  --

  The cool air of the manor feels sharper after the warmth outside. Alexios leads the way through the wide hall toward the sitting room, his stride measured but not hurried. He pauses just long enough to address a passing servant.

  “Bring fresh lemonade to the east sitting room,” he instructs, then after a moment adds, “With mint leaves.”

  His gaze flicks briefly toward me, as if making sure I heard that last part.

  He takes a seat in an armchair angled toward the window while I move to a low settee. He seems content to let the quiet stretch for now.

  I watch him for a moment, his profile calm and composed just as it had been before I saw the glint of tears. The words are out before I can decide whether I should speak them.

  “That grave,” I say softly. “Whose was it?”

  Alexios’s eyes remain on the window for a few seconds longer, as though he hasn’t heard me. Then he leans back in his chair, hands loosely clasped on one knee.

  “One of the best violinists in all of Menzoberranzan,” he says quietly. There’s a weight in his voice now, a subtle lowering that makes each word feel deliberate. “His music could hush an entire hall.”

  I catch the faintest tremor in his tone before he smooths it away, but it’s enough. There’s grief there, it seems. Old maybe, but still very much alive.

  Before I can speak again, a servant slips in with a tray. The glass of lemonade set before me is cool and pale, sprigs of mint floating lazily in the ice. Alexios thanks them, though his gaze lingers on me, as if deciding whether to say more… or to leave the rest unsaid.

  I want to ask more about this violinist and what happened to him, but Alexios speaks first.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says, as easily as someone might comment on the weather. His eyes meet mine at last, steady and unreadable.

  The words hang there, unexpected and warm, but they slide in so neatly over the subject of the grave that I can’t help but wonder if this is meant to distract me.

  I take a slow sip of the lemonade, letting the cool tang sit on my tongue.

  “That’s… a sudden thing to say,” I murmur, watching him over the rim of the glass.

  His mouth curves faintly.

  “Only sudden because I hadn’t said it sooner.”

  The compliment is disarming, but a part of me still stands in that field, watching him place a flower on a small grave, his lashes damp in the sunlight.

  He leans back in his chair, clearly content to let me wrestle with the dual weight of his grief and his charm and I can’t decide which one is more dangerous.

  I set the glass down, my fingers still curled loosely around it, unsure whether to meet his gaze or look away.

  Alexios rises from his chair without a sound, crossing the small space between us. He stops just close enough that I can feel the faint stir of his breath when he speaks.

  “Arun,” he says softly, my name wrapped in something warmer than mere politeness. He kneels slightly so we’re level, his hand coming to rest on the arm of the settee beside me. “You are beautiful. Especially when you’re trying to decide whether to believe me.”

  The nearness makes my pulse stumble. His eyes hold mine and for a moment, the memory of the grave and the violinist dissolves beneath the heat of his attention.

  One hand lifts and his fingertips graze the side of my jaw. It’s light enough to feel like a question.

  “May I?” he asks, his voice lower now, as if the walls themselves shouldn’t hear.

  I can’t tell if this is a continuation of last night’s unspoken game or something entirely different, but I nod anyway, unable to find my voice.

  His thumb brushes my cheek and he leans in, the scent of mint and sun-warmed linen on him, until there’s almost nothing between us at all.

  His lips meet mine slowly, without the hurried hunger of last night, as though he’s taking the time to learn the shape of this moment. The touch is warm and deliberate. He’s testing… tasting.

  I feel the faint pressure of his hand at my jaw, guiding me just slightly closer, his thumb brushing against my skin in a rhythm that makes my chest tighten. The scent of mint drifts faintly between us, carried from the lemonade on the table.

  When he draws back, it’s only far enough to keep his mouth hovering over mine. His eyes search me, steady but unreadable, and I wonder if he’s gauging the truth of my earlier admission about enjoying last night’s hungry kisses.

  “You taste like sunshine,” he murmurs, as if it’s a fact and not something meant to unravel me.

  Maybe it is meant to distract me from the grave and the shadow of the violinist’s name he never spoke, but with the heat of his breath still brushing my lips, I can’t quite bring myself to care right now.

  Before I can think of pulling back, his lips return to mine, firmer this time, drawing me into the warmth of him. His hand slides from my jaw to the back of my neck, his fingers threading into my hair with a slow possessiveness that sends a shiver down my spine.

  I part my lips and he accepts the invitation without hesitation. The tip of his tongue brushes mine slowly like he’s savoring the taste. My hands, uncertain at first, come to rest against his chest. Even through the fine fabric of his shirt, I can feel the steady rise and fall of his breath.

  He leans closer, his knee pressing against the edge of the settee as if to cage me in, and I can smell clean linen, faint spice and the barest trace of the sun-warmed air outside.

  When he finally breaks the kiss, his mouth lingers at the corner of mine, then drifts lower, tracing a slow path along my jaw to the place just beneath my ear. His breath is warm there, almost coaxing, and I can feel the faintest graze of his teeth before he murmurs, “I could get used to this.”

  The sound of his voice in that tone makes my pulse trip. My fingers curl lightly into his shirt, holding him there as though I’m afraid he’ll retreat.

  Instead, he draws back just enough to meet my eyes again and his thumb sweeps once more across my cheek.

  “You’re trembling,” he observes, not unkindly.

  Maybe I am, but at this moment, with the feeling of his lips still tingling against mine, I don’t care if he notices.

  I shift forward onto the settee, my hand sliding from his chest down toward his waist, testing the space between us.

  “Alexios…” I murmur, the word carrying more intent than I’d planned.

  His eyes flicker with something that feels like temptation, but just as quickly, it’s shuttered away.

  He leans in to press one last kiss to my lips then straightens, stepping back with smooth, deliberate ease.

  “As much as I’d enjoy letting you distract me,” he says, his voice returning to that calm, measured cadence, “I need to check in on the supply inventories. We have a shipment due in three days and the servants will need direction.”

  The shift is so seamless that I almost think I’ve imagined the heat of a moment ago. He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve, already half-turned toward the door. I sit back, pulse still racing, the cool glass of lemonade untouched beside me.

  “Right,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “Of course.”

  Alexios glances over his shoulder with the faintest ghost of a smile.

  “Don’t go far. I might need you later.”

  Then he’s gone, the sound of his footsteps receding into the hall, leaving the air around me feeling emptier than I want to admit.

  --

  Later, I find Alexios in one of the storage rooms near the back of the manor, where the air smells faintly of dried herbs, oiled wood and burlap. He’s bent over a ledger on a narrow table, one hand braced against the wood while the other flips between inventory notes and a shipment list.

  Several crates sit open around him, sacks of dried roots and bundles of fresh-cut leaves neatly tied with twine. Yet the crease between his brows tells me something isn’t quite right.

  “Something wrong?” I ask, stepping inside.

  Alexios glances up briefly and then gestures toward one of the open crates.

  “A few of these don’t match the records. The weight is off. Not enough to cause alarm, but enough to notice. Could be an error in recording… or something else.”

  He moves to another sack, loosens the tie, and sifts through its contents with careful fingers. I come closer, peering into the crate.

  “May I?”

  At his nod, I take the ledger, running my eyes over the neat columns of figures. I cross-check them with the markings on the crates, then the feel of the bundles inside.

  “This one here,” I say, tapping the page, “Probably meant for the shipment, not storage. If it was weighed before being set aside, that could explain the difference.”

  He pauses, then a slow smile touches his mouth.

  “Not bad,” he says, and there’s genuine warmth in the praise. “You’ve got an eye for detail.”

  I shrug lightly, though the approval sends a little current through me. “I pay attention.”

  “I can see that.” His gaze lingers on me a heartbeat longer before he returns to the ledger. “Perhaps I should have you look over these with me more often.”

  --

  Dinner passes in a warm blur of roasted vegetables, spiced bread, and some quiet conversation. By the time the plates are cleared, Alexios has led me to the smaller sitting room where a single lamp casts a soft amber glow over the shelves and the low table.

  He pours the wine himself and it’s a beautiful dark red that catches the light when he sets my glass before me. The first sip is rich and smooth, clinging to the tongue in a way that makes me want to slow down and savor it.

  For a while, we simply talk about the plantation itself and his plans for next season’s crops, the incoming shipments and even the odd discrepancy we’d sorted out earlier. His mood is much lighter than it had been in the morning, but the little shadow I’d glimpsed on him by the grave still lingers in my mind. I turn my glass slowly in my hand, watching the wine swirl.

  “Alexios,” I begin, trying to be careful with my tone. “Earlier, you said that grave belonged to a violinist.”

  The shift in him as soon as I speak is so subtle, but I see it. There’s a stillness in his hands and a fraction of a pause before he sets his own glass down.

  “Yes,” he says after a moment. His voice is quieter now, without the easy warmth of before. “His name was Nykolai.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t offer more.

  “You knew him?” I press gently.

  His gaze fixes on the surface of his wine.

  “Yes… I did.”

  There’s a faint rasp to his words now, the kind that comes from speaking through something unhealed. The sound of it seems to linger in the air between us and I know better than to push all at once. Still, I can’t shake the way he says the name. It’s almost like a note drawn too long on a string, trembling but unbroken.

  Alexios runs his finger around the rim of the wine glass, the lamplight catching the deep red within.

  “He was… someone important to me,” he says at last. His voice is steady, but there’s a heaviness beneath it that even the smoothest words can’t hide. “Taken far too soon.”

  I study him for a moment, watching the way his gaze stays fixed on the wine instead of me. His shoulders have settled into a stillness that he seems to wear when he’s bracing himself. There’s more to the story, but I understand enough to know that pushing further would only turn the peace and quiet between us into something quite brittle.

  So I nod once, letting the silence settle without breaking it.

  Alexios lifts his glass again, takes a slow sip and the moment passes as it folds itself neatly into the shadows of the room.

  We speak of other things after that, but I carry his words with me and their weight lingers long after the wine is gone.

  It’s late when we part from the sitting room with the last of the wine warming my veins. The manor is quieter now since the servants have gone to their own quarters. The halls are dim except for the glow of a few wall lamps. As we reach the door to my room, Alexios stops just short of leaving. There’s a trace of that teasing curve to his mouth though his tone is softer than earlier.

  “May I tuck you in?”

  I blink at him, caught between amusement and something warmer.

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I know,” he says easily, though his eyes glint in the low light. “But I’d like to anyway.”

  I hesitate for only a heartbeat before stepping aside to let him in. He follows, moving with that unhurried grace of his, and gestures toward the bed.

  “Lie down, love.”

  The instruction isn’t a command, but rather… very gentle. I find myself obeying without question. The covers pull smooth beneath his hands as he draws them over me, the faint scent of his cologne brushing close when he leans in to straighten them at my shoulders.

  For a moment, his hand lingers there, warm through the fabric.

  “Comfortable?”

  “Yes,” I say and it comes out quieter than I intend.

  “Good.” He leans down just enough for his lips to brush my temple, his voice low. “Sleep well, Arun.”

  Then he’s gone, the soft click of the door leaving me alone with the echo of his touch and the strange comfort of knowing he’d chosen to end the night here, with me.

  The room feels larger once he’s gone and the stillness presses in on all sides. I lie there beneath the covers and the faint warmth from his hand at my shoulder lingers like a ghost.

  --

  Sleep doesn’t come right away. Why would it?

  My mind turns over the day in fragments. The way he held my hand in the garden, the kiss in the sitting room, the shadow in his eyes when he spoke of Nykolai and the tiny grave in the wild part of the field.

  It’s strange how quickly the days and hours have tangled us together like threads beginning to be pulled tight on a loom. I can’t tell where my curiosity ends and something deeper begins. I wonder if it feels the same for him.

  And then of course, there’s last night.

  That moment.

  It’s still so sharp in my mind and still unanswered. He insists it was only an injury and that there’s nothing unnatural about him, but a part of me can’t let it go for some reason. There had been something in his eyes then.

  Something that made me kneel without even thinking.

  I turn onto my side, facing the curtained window. The house is silent, but I can almost imagine I hear him moving somewhere beyond these walls, checking on things and keeping order.

  For a long time, I watch the shadows shift across the ceiling, letting my thoughts drift between the warmth of his touch and the weight of the things he hasn’t told me. When I finally do fall asleep, it’s with the faint taste of wine and his lips still on my tongue.

  --

  I wake up some time later, though I’m not sure what stirs me. It could be the faint creak of the old beams above or the shifting of the curtains in a draft. Maybe even the quiet ache of knowing I’m alone.

  The room is dim, lit only by the faint silver of moonlight spilling through the crack in the curtains. I lie there for a moment and listen, but there’s no sound beyond the soft pulse of the wind outside.

  I reach out instinctively, my hand brushing the cool, empty space beside me. He’s never slept here, but somehow, I still expect him to be there with his warmth steady in the dark.

  The thought makes my heart pound a bit. I tell myself it’s foolish to want him here with me, but it doesn’t lessen the feeling. I wonder if he’s reading in his study or perhaps already asleep in his own room.

  I close my eyes again and in the quiet, I can almost imagine the scent of him lingering.

  I miss him.

  The realization is soft, but certain. It settles in my bones like a truth I can’t just argue away.

  The longer I lie there, the more the emptiness of the room seems to press in on me. Finally, I throw the covers back and the chill of the air brushes over my bare feet as I stand.

  The manor is hushed, shadows stretching long across the walls as I make my way through the halls. The polished floors creak in a few places, the sound loud in the stillness.

  I check the sitting room first, but it’s empty. The study is next and when I ease the door open, the desk is bare and the chair has been neatly pushed in.

  I move toward the back of the house and see the faintest glow spilling from the partially open door of the conservatory. I push it open wider and I find him there sitting at the far end of the room with a book in his lap and a single candle burning on the table beside him.

  He looks up at the sound of my steps, surprise softening into that half-smile he sometimes wears when he’s caught off guard.

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “I… missed you,” I admit before I can think better of it.

  Something in his expression shifts and the corner of his mouth eases into something warmer. He closes the book slowly, setting it aside.

  “Then come here, pretty one.”

  I cross the room and watch as his expression turns to soft relief and the shadows cling to the line of his jaw. When I reach him, he doesn’t rise. He just opens an arm in silent invitation.

  I sink into the space beside him and he draws me in without hesitation. The faint rustle of his clothes, the steady warmth of his body, the slow rise and fall of his breath… it all feels like the missing piece I’d been searching for in the dark.

  He says nothing at first, simply resting his cheek lightly against my hair, one hand tracing idle patterns at the small of my back. The quiet is gentle, not awkward, and I find my own breathing falling into rhythm with his.

  After a while, he murmurs, “Better?”

  I nod against him.

  “Yes.”

  The candle burns longer as I stay wrapped up in his arms and eventually, he shifts just enough to wrap the throw from the back of the couch around my shoulders with his other arm never leaving my waist.

  “Stay here,” he says quietly and it sounds like a promise rather than an order.

  I close my eyes and with him holding me like this, the rest of the night passes without a nightmare.