“Go!” My shout cracked the room as I jabbed a finger toward the hall.
She flinched. The guard rose in her eyes like a shutter slamming closed. My demand hurt her—sprinkled salt into her open, aching heart.
I didn’t move. My hand remained raised between us, command suspended in air.
Her throat worked. A single tear slid down her rosy cheek.
“The goat’s name is Oreo,” she whispered.
Then she turned and walked down the hall, spine straight despite the tremor in her shoulders.
I stepped aside for Ronan to follow, fury radiating from the look he cast me. I ignored him.
When the door shut in their wake, my eyes closed.
Agony surged through my chest, ripping apart my heart, and I wrapped it tight, binding it for later. I’d become adept at that—picking up the pieces others broke. I dealt heartbreak as if it were currency.
Breath filled my lungs once, caught, then steadied.
Duty waited—to my people, a family.
After that, I would rest.
One foot before the other.
A single step.
Then another.
Silence followed us. Not peace. Absence. The image of a widowed wife clung to me, her hollow stare threading through every footfall. Nobody spoke. Tension hovered over our small group, heavy and watchful, like carrion birds tracing slow circles overhead, waiting to see who would falter.
The entrance opened to the manor in muted light and polished stone. Ronan was dismissed with a curt nod. I did not trust my voice with him.
I led Nienna down the corridor to our chambers.
My body howled for collapse. Muscles trembled. Vision blurred at the edges. Sleep beckoned with soft hands and dark promise. But I couldn’t surrender to it. Not yet. I had spent too many years fighting to have such a lapse in discipline.
Inside, the room smelled faintly of lavender oil and fresh linen. Quiet pressed in.
Nienna reached for the straps of my cuirass.
I stepped back.
The movement was small. Instinctive. A reflex born from irritation or habit or both.
She recoiled as though struck. Her face had gone pale beneath dried tear tracks. The faint salt lines traced her cheeks likesilver scars. Her eyes, dark as a midnight sea, shimmered. Hurt flickered there. Not anger. My rejection wounded her.
We faced one another.
My jaw locked, and my brows drew low. I held my ground.
She waited, breath caught high in her chest.
I did not move.
Air filled her lungs in a slow, controlled draw. Dragonfire. I saw it settle beneath her skin, a mask sliding into place. Pride straightened her spine. Steel entered her posture, chin lifting in pure defiance.
Without a word, she turned toward the washroom.
