“Are you in pain? Is it your gown? I should’ve removed it, but I worried about touching you during…”
I trail off and she doesn’t try to finish the thought.
This is clearly a point of pain—as is perfectly reasonable after the wine.
Giving us the drug doesn’t feel like it was a deliberate attack against us—it feels more like a cultural misunderstanding.
But I wanted to leave this all behind. I think she does too.
“I am so sorry. But I hope you know it wasn’t your fault.”
She stares at the wall for a long time.“Not my fault. Not in control.”
Her hand comes up to press against her eyes.
“I’m so tired of this,” she murmurs.
“I know.”
She turns to me, and each pop and crack of the fire punctuates my nerves as we stare at each other, suspended in something that stops time.
“I feel I must thank you again,” she says.
“For not taking advantage of you?” I ask, bewildered.
“For, once again, upholding my trust.”
Except, I had lied. I feel awful. Like I’ve sunk into the floorboards.
“I don’t like it here,” her voice sears through my thoughts.
“I don’t either. It’s around midnight, judging by the moon. We’ll leave in the early morning, and then, we’ll find your witches and go home,” I say. “Just a few hours, Firelocks. Just?—”
“Will you hold me?”
Relief floods over shoulders and down my arms. Without hesitation, I crawl over and climb onto the bed. Once there, I pull her against my shoulder.
Her skin is a normal temperature, not fevered like it had been last night. I let out a relieved breath as she presses her face into my chest.
"I'm here," I whisper, cradling the back of her head. "I've got you."
Her slender arms wrap around me, and her nails dig into my back. The scent of her hair, lavender and wood, fills my senses.
Her breathing slows, a soft rhythm that lulls me into the warmth of the moment. She shifts her body, curling into my lap like she’s finally finding a place where she belongs. The blanket falls to the side. Firelight flickers and dances over her dress. And soon, it’s just us. Arlet and Vann. Firelocks, and her sky.
There is utter abandon in how she holds onto me.
How could I have known that we would be here one day? That all the struggles, the misunderstandings, the walls we built between us—would fall away like the blanket had, leaving two people who needed each other?
I’d been a fool for fighting her, for pushing her away when, all along, we could’ve had some version of this—this peace. I could’ve held her a long time ago. But I hadn’t known how to let go, how to trust. And now...
She lifts her head. Her eyes meet mine. Then she flushes.
“Hostia,”she winces. “I remember a few things, from before I fell asleep.”
Me too. I remember how she smelled—sweat, heat, and something raw that lingered in the air. Gods, I can only imagine how embarrassing that must’ve felt for her. She’s always put in twice the effort, fighting to keep a tight grip on the world around her, striving to make sense of it all.
Letting go of control is worlds apart from losing it. One feels like a gift, the other a violation.