Page 87 of These Tears

My voice comes out low and rough. ‘Thank-k y-y-you…’

He dips his head closer. And that small lick of his body heat drives me over the edge.

I scurry towards him, burying into his chest that radiates heat and spite in equal measure.

‘F-for the w-warmth.’ I sniff, gripping his navy jumper. ‘And t-the f-f-ood.’

‘And for keeping you safe.’

Safe. From the danger he dragged me into. From the cold he weaponised.

But I’m nodding. My voice won’t come as though the winter has frozen it solid behind my teeth.

‘Aloud.’

‘S… safety.’ It judders over my rattling teeth.

‘For letting you join in on the chores.’

‘Ch… chores.’ My tongue feels too big and too clumsy in my mouth.

‘And for allowing you to sleep in my bed.’

The next wave of tremors crashes over me so hard my vision spots. But it isn’t just the cold. It’s a molten thing threading through the ice that makes my lungs forget their rhythm.

A gasp snags behind my teeth as I peel myself back just enough to tilt my head and look up into the face of the azure-eyed demon holding the door between life and death.

‘W-what?’ The word splinters out of me.

‘In my bed,’ he clarifies softly, bending closer towards my mouth. ‘Next to me.’

God help me.

‘Nod, Leah.’

I do. Jerky, puppet-like movements that feel nothing like consent and everything like reflex.

‘Beg me.’

Numb and traitorous, my lips tingle with the sound before it comes. ‘P-please, El… Elias… l-let me in-n.’

‘No,’ he cuts in, voice dropping lower, crueller. ‘To sleep next to me.’

His arms finally reach fully around my back, sealing me into the furnace of his chest. The heat sears through silk and skin, straight into bone, thawing me from the inside out. My body still shudders, caught between disdain, shock and ache I don’t want to examine.

‘P-please—’ My voice splinters, each word a struggle, ‘will y-you… l-let m-me… s-s-sleep next… t-to you?’

‘Of course, elskling.’ He smiles, guides me up onto unsteady feet and drags me over the threshold into the warmth. The house devours us. The door shuts out the screaming cold as the last howl of the wind steals his words:

‘What kind of fiancé would I be if I didn’t?’

16

Just beyond my knees, the fire pops and snaps like old bones under pressure. I watch it the way other people watch sunsets or water caustics, searching for patterns that might make the world feel less than what it is.

But this isn’t peace. This is my reckoning.

The logs hiss as they’re eaten down. Each flame forks and curls, bright enough to comfort, hungry enough to warn.