Elowen's POV
The air in the hallway, just beyond the opulent warmth of the dining room, felt surprisingly cool against my flushed cheeks, a silent, almost ghostly whisper against my skin. I hadn’t even registered the frantic pace of my breathing until Alaric stepped directly in front of me once more, his strong hand still a firm, grounding presence on my arm, his usually sharp expression unreadable in the flickering, diffused light cast by the ornate chandelier overhead.
“I know you’re overwhelmed, Elowen,” he said softly, his voice a low, steady anchor in the turbulent sea of my emotions, “but please… don’t shut us out. Not now. Not when we’re all trying so damn hard to hold ourselves together, for you.”
My lips parted, a jumble of conflicting words and feelings caught behind an invisible wall in my throat. He looked too sincere, too rawly exposed. This wasn’t the familiar, cocky smirk Alaric often wore like a suit of armor, a shield against vulnerability. This was the man beneath
