Ropes banded his chest, each knot cinching tighter the further he ran from the inn. Fromher. Shame rushed up, hot and bright. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t fuckingbreathe. How could he have left her, warm and eager, standing alone in that damned room with its single bed, looking at him like he’d just pulled her heart out of her chest and stomped on it?
How he hated himself.
For a beautiful moment, their kiss had been exactly as he had dreamed about in those dark midnights alone in his bedroom. She’d stirred up long-dormant feelings in his body and made him believe, for one shining heartbeat, that he could offer her the love she deserved.
But, then.Oh, then – the shattering.
Maeve had slid her hands up his shirt and onto his bare skin. She’d whispered,beggedhim for more, for all of him. She’d pushed herself against him until there could be no confusion about how much he wanted her. Yet, all he could think aboutwere the tattoos under her fingers, and as soon as the fear invaded, it consumed everything else.
He scraped the sleeve of his jumper over his eyes, heaving breath after breath. How could he expect her to want to see his body when he couldn’t bear the sight himself? The physical wounds from the Abbey might’ve healed over the past eight years, but the emotional wounds remained so raw he wondered if he would ever allow himself to be vulnerable.
At that moment, it had felt impossible.
So, Jude had run, and he would keep running.
The village stretched around him in a network of narrow alleys and snow-covered streets. The air smelled of salt and metal. Buildings flashed by in shades of dishwater grey, pale yellow, the faded blue of worn fabric. None of it recognizable, all of it blurry.
He stopped and leaned against a dirt-streaked wall. A sign dangling above him creaked, mixing with the faint whistle of the wind and his panting breath. A creeping thought slipped past the pounding of blood in his ears, somehow more poisonous than all the self-loathing that had come before it.
She knew him. She’d seen him. She’d painted him.
Maevewantedhim. His traitorous heart ached with the realization.
It had happened too slowly for him to grasp every moment fully, but somehow, she’d seen the broken, hollow person he was and wanted him still. She’d placed her hand over the tattoos on his arm and offered to shoulder the pain for him. She’d begged against his mouth. She’d had her hands on bare skin and whisperedplease.
Fuck.
Jude opened his eyes. He’d made a mistake.
He would go back and be honest with her – he wanted her desperately, but he was afraid.
Vulnerability wasn’t something he took lightly. It had taken months even to have a full conversation with Elden when theother man had first arrived, knowing it was the Abbey who had sent him to keep Jude company. Months of skirting around each other, eating Elden’s attempts at meals, watching him as he generously took care of the unpleasant tasks Jude had been avoiding around the house. But slowly, his consistency eroded Jude’s hostility. The same tactics he’d used to tame Olive when they’d found her cowering under a bush a few months prior. Maybe Jude was more of a feral cat than he realized.
Jude had let Maeve in quicker than Elden, but his reason for keeping her at a distance had been different than with the other man. Elden might’ve been found and employed by the Abbey, but he’d come from a life as a woodsman and not from its limestone halls directly. Maeve had been raised the same way he had. Both of them came scarred, visible or not.
She wouldn’t laugh at the marks of his upbringing. He had to believe that if he would ever allow her to see him fully. Anddammit, he wanted to. He wanted to experience everything with her.
If he knew anything about Maeve, it was that she’d listen to him with an open heart, take his hand, and give him exactly what he needed.
A singular lamp flickered sluggishly above, casting the street in oily shadows. He’d seen the lamplighters out earlier – boys running about with their poles, hoisting them up the streetlights to light the flame within. There was no sign of them now, nor anyone else.
The building across from him was boarded with wax paper, a torn corner flapping in the salted wind coming up the narrow alley. The scent gave him pause – hadn’t Elden said they were at a village on the outskirts of Whitebury? He shouldn’t be able to smell the sea this far inland. The salt dissipated with the next breath, replaced with a slight smokiness.
Snow drifted down in damp flakes to coat his upturned face. He dug his hands into his jacket pockets, thankful he’d had theforesight to re-don his coat. His undershirt chafed his oversensitive skin, reminding him of the feeling of Maeve’s nails scraping up his torso. He unhooked the thought before it could embed itself any deeper.
He needed to get moving.
An open sewer ran alongside the cobbled path, smelling uncomfortably like Elden’s compost. Wherever he was in the town, Jude hoped he was safe. He hadn’t liked the look in the guards’ eyes earlier. A frenetic tension lit the air, a watchfulness. If it weren’t for the softly falling snow, he’d wonder if a thunderstorm was approaching.
Nearby, a bell tolled.
Jude turned a corner, and there it was – the clock tower. Depictions of bygone saints marred the pale stone, carved around narrow windows of simple stained glass that marched evenly up the side of the tower. The tower reached higher than its neighbouring buildings, its facade older and better looked after. He guessed it had been here long before the other structures, its presence an obstacle for all other infrastructure to build around. That was how the Abbey worked – claiming space even where it wasn’t welcome.
He stopped at the base of it, staring up.
Gold flickered at the edge of his vision. He pressed his palms to cold stone, traced the outline of an outstretched arm, the folds of a cloak. He skated the backs of his fingers against the long braid of a saint, picturing Maeve’s face in its place. Had artists like her done it – acolytes turned artisans, creating for the Abbey? Giving of themselves to mark their devotion?
The work was nothing like hers. These figures were frozen. Hers breathed with life, with passion and light and devotion to her craft. He pressed his palm flat to the saint’s face, covering it to avoid its stone gaze.
