Embers beneath the skin

The rain had not stopped since morning. It whispered against the windows and slipped through the trees like a secret, drenching the little house in a melancholic rhythm. Isabella sat curled on the sofa, Auther’s head resting on her lap, her fingers combing through his damp hair. The fireplace crackled softly, casting shadows across his face, softening the edges of the guilt he carried in his eyes.

For hours, neither of them spoke of the letter.

Instead, they stayed wrapped in each other, pretending the world hadn’t crept into their bubble, pretending that love alone could keep it out.

“I don’t want her to come,” Isabella said finally, her voice breaking the hush. “I don’t want her to take you from me.”

“She won’t,” Auther replied, without hesitation. “She has no power over me anymore.”

Isabella said nothing, but her fingers stilled for a moment in his hair.

---

The following days passed with a strange kind of tenderness—a deliberate holding on, a silent cherishing of every moment as though they were aware of a countdown neither could see.

Auther took to writing again. Pages spilled from his hands like confessions: poetry, prayers, dreams. Sometimes Isabella would find him at the window, scribbling on parchment with ink-stained fingers, brow furrowed, lost in thought.

“Tell me what you’re writing,” she’d ask.

He’d smile faintly. “Things I never got to say.”

“To her?”

“No. To myself.”

---

On the third night, the rain gave way to wind. It howled through the hills, whipping through trees and slapping against the shutters. Isabella stood by the hearth, her hands trembling as she held a clay bowl of stew.

“You’re shaking,” Auther said, taking it from her.

She met his gaze. “I’m afraid.”

“Of her?”

She shook her head. “Of losing this. Of waking up and finding it was all a dream.”

He cupped her face, thumb brushing her cheek. “Then I’ll keep you awake.”

They didn’t eat. Not right away.

He lifted her onto the counter, their mouths meeting in hungry desperation. She wrapped her legs around him, fingers gripping his hair as he pressed into her, deep and slow, murmuring against her lips, “You are my only truth.”

After, they ate together in silence, candlelight flickering between them like fragile hope.

---

That weekend, they decided to visit the river. It had been weeks since they’d left the town’s outskirts. Isabella packed a basket of bread, cheese, and fresh figs. Auther carried a blanket, her sketchbook, and his own journal.

The path was overgrown with wildflowers and memories. The river roared louder than usual from the rains, but its presence was soothing, a reminder that nature carried on, indifferent to human ache.

They picnicked on the bank, watching the sun slip through broken clouds.

“I used to come here as a child,” Isabella whispered. “Before my father left. Before life became... complicated.”

Auther kissed her temple. “Tell me everything.”

And so she did. She told him about the years of silence between her and her mother. The time she ran barefoot for miles just to feel free. The night she first heard him preach and felt her soul tremble.

“You saved me,” she said. “Even before you knew me.”

He turned to her then, serious. “I didn’t save you. You resurrected me.”

Their lips met again, tender at first, then deeper. His fingers trailed over the buttons of her dress, and she let him peel her open like scripture. There, beneath the old oak tree, they made love with the river as witness, the earth cradling them in moss and memory.

When they lay spent, her cheek against his chest, she whispered, “We’re writing something holy.”

And he, breathless, murmured, “Then let the angels weep.”

---

But heaven wasn’t quiet.

The letter came again—this time placed at the doorstep, sealed with the same wax sigil, darker now, as though pressed with anger. Isabella found it first. She stared at it for minutes before calling him.

Auther’s face drained of color when he saw it.

“She’s close,” he said.

“Do you want me to open it?” Isabella asked.

He took it from her gently. “No. I’ll face it.”

He opened the envelope slowly. Inside was a single sentence:

“You promised me forever. I’ve come to collect.”

There was no name. But they both knew.

That night, Auther didn’t sleep. He sat in the chair by the window, watching the woods, fingers twitching like they itched for something he’d sworn off. Isabella sat behind him, wrapped in a blanket, silent.

“Do you still love her?” she asked.

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know if I ever did. I was broken then. She offered me escape. But love? No. Not like this.”

She nodded, understanding more than he said.

---

The next day, they received a visitor.

An old woman from the church—a kind soul who once brought Auther soup during his sleepless nights—knocked on the door, eyes wide with worry.

“She’s here,” she said. “In town. Asking about you.”

“Did she say her name?” Isabella asked.

“No. But she’s... striking. Black coat. Red lips. Eyes like knives.”

Auther closed his eyes. “Catherine.”

The woman touched his arm. “Be careful. There’s something... unholy about her.”

As the door closed behind the woman, Isabella turned to him.

“Tell me everything. No more secrets.”

So he did.

He told her of Catherine—the brilliant theology student who once challenged his every belief, the woman who seduced him with intellect and desire. How they spent nights debating scripture and mornings tangled in guilt. How she grew possessive, obsessive. How she once whispered in his ear that she would ruin him if he ever left.

“She found out I was taking vows,” he said. “She told the bishop everything. Lies and truths. Enough to break me.”

He skipped the most important part- the part where she had his son, who didn't survive and this guilt that he caused his death that aye him up,for years.

“And now she’s back,” Isabella whispered.

“She always said if I ever found someone else, she’d burn it all.”

---

The following days were tense. They didn’t argue, but silence lived between them like a third presence. Auther became more withdrawn, only returning to himself when he touched Isabella.

One evening, they stood beneath the stars, the world quiet.

“I’m not afraid of her,” Isabella said.

“You should be.”

She turned to him. “No. I’m afraid of losing you to yourself. To your past.”

He pulled her into his arms. “Then hold me here. In the now.”

She kissed him, long and deep.

And again, they fell into each other, clutching at the present like it was all they had.

But outside, in the shadows, Catherine waited. And she was done waiting quietly.

---

The next morning, Isabella walked into the town alone.

She needed to feel solid ground. She bought bread from the bakery, helped a young boy carry books across the street, visited the old chapel where Auther once preached. Inside, she lit a candle, praying not for peace—but for strength.

As she turned to leave, she saw her.

Catherine.

Beautiful. Sharp. Dressed in black.

“Hello,” Catherine said. Her voice was honey and poison. “I was hoping I’d find you.”

Isabella’s heart hammered. “What do you want?”

“To see the woman who stole him.”

“He was never yours.”

Catherine smiled coldly. “That’s what you think.”

She stepped closer, and Isabella stood her ground.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Catherine said. “But I will. If that’s the only way to get him back.”

“You’re too late.”

“We’ll see.”

She walked past her, the scent of jasmine and something darker lingering in the air.

Isabella didn’t cry. She went home, opened the door, and collapsed into Auther’s arms.

“She’s here. She found me.”

His eyes darkened. “Then I won’t let her near you again.”

But Catherine had already begun to unravel things. Whispers in town. Letters slipped under doors. Accusations laced with truths twisted into lies.

Their sanctuary was starting to fracture.

But they held on. Every night, they lit candles. They made love like warriors. They kissed like prayers. They whispered promises into each other’s skin.

“We are fire,” Isabella told him one night. “Let her try to smother us.”

And Auther, fierce and aching, replied, “Then let her burn.”