The Aftermath

(Paige’s POV)

Fog lifts as sun spills over the sill, soft at first. Light stretches slowly, brushing boards worn by years of footsteps. It slides past the last red glimmers in the stone bowl of the fireplace. Reaches where blankets lie tangled, half-fallen to the floor.

Now here, eyes open. Been like this some time, staying still in the hush that came after.

Beside me, Noah rests - his arm sprawled over my torso like an afterthought. The sharp edges he wears during waking hours have melted into something softer now. Dark lashes rest low on his skin, brushing gently each time he breathes out. That mouth, so often sealed tight with tension, hangs open just a fraction. A rare softness shows through. Younger somehow. Open. So striking it pulls at something deep behind my ribs.

He lies beside me, this duke, this fighter, this force like thunder. Mine - that thought stretches beyond what my mind can grip. Yet the weight of his breath on my neck, the promise caught in his voice last night, how his arm stays curled around me while dreaming - somehow these pieces stitch fantasy into something steady. Something that does not break.

Silently, I raise my hand, afraid to break the quiet. Along his brow I glide, then down the firm rise of his nose. Past the thin mark above his eye, where skin remembers old damage. The dusting of darkness along his chin meets my touch next. His body shifts, a soft noise escaping deep within him. He presses into me, warmth meeting collarbone. At that, just barely, I almost grin.

This isn’t loud. Quiet instead, breakable - taken in silence, yet real.

Later on, real life shows up. Fire turns into cold dust. Cold air sneaks through the blankets, cuts through his warmth. Down below, quiet signs of morning stir - the rattle of pans, low talk - proof we’re still sharing these walls with others.

Noah’s eyes open.

Wakefulness hits without delay. Instantly alert, he locks onto my face, no lag between dreams and now. Morning washes his eyes in pale blue, drowsy at the edges, yet sharpness simmers beneath, quiet as embers holding heat.

“Hi,” I whisper.

A small shift happens at the edge of his lips. Not a full grin, yet nothing like the hard look he often wears. His arm moves slow, reaching up to push one loose piece of hair back behind my ear. The warmth of his fingertips stays against my skin a moment too long.

"Hey," I say back, my words thick from rest, scraping low. A quiet thrill moves through you at the sound.

A silence stretches, longer than expected. Our eyes stay locked, heavy with everything words can’t reach. That evening lingers there, along with something deeper now - something raw, unfamiliar. I feel unsure, which surprises me. He watches back, open in a way he hasn’t been before.

A hush falls apart when he moves, his thumb tracing the ridge of my cheek. Not a word more comes out - yet everything hangs in his stare. Could you be hurting? Might regret sit heavy? Did I cross some line?

Fear makes sense to me. Life taught him that closeness shows frailty, that bonds invite attack. Letting himself feel what passed between us - this weighed heavy, like handing over armor. Like standing unarmed.

My face tilts toward him, lips brushing his hand. That word leaves my mouth - perfect - and it feels true, like air after holding breath.

His shoulders relax, finally letting go. Into my space he moves, pressing a kiss - gentle, unhurried, flavored by drowsiness and something steady. This is commitment showing up again. What was before now simply goes on.

Yet mornings always come. Up he rises, slow as if pulled by invisible strings, a heavy breath escaping him - like sorrow given sound. Sheets slide down, pooling at his hips, showing wide shoulders marked by time's needlework: faint lines on warm skin where battles wrote their names. I forget to exhale. Not just flesh and bone - he’s proof that breaking doesn’t mean ending.

His eyes flick toward mine when he turns. Caught staring, I freeze. That small proud smile appears - something almost never seen. "Find what you’re after?" it says without words

A flush climbs into my face, yet my eyes stay fixed. Not shifting. "Counting things up," I tell him, aiming for something casual. Something like ease. "What I’ve got." My voice holds

A slow grin spreads across his face. Back he comes, hovering above me, propped up on an elbow, close enough that I feel his breath. Warmth flickers in his gaze - soft, but it stirs something low in my chest. Quietly, almost teasing, he says, “Mine now, aren’t they?” His voice dips, rough at the edges. Then: “Guess I’ll have to check everything myself.”

This time his kiss goes slower, heavier, like he owns every second. My toes tighten without thinking. Before I can draw him under the sheets where it's warm, a quiet but clear tap hits the door.

Everything about Noah shifts. The warmth fades fast, swapped out for something sharper. His eyes narrow, focused elsewhere. A different man takes over - cold, precise. From where he looms, words cut through the quiet: “Tell me what happened.” He stays right there, unmoving, yet suddenly miles away.

“The road is clear, my lord,” Alex’s voice comes through the wood, carefully neutral. “The storm has passed. The men are ready when you are.”

“We’ll be down shortly.”

Off he rolls, smooth like someone who's done it a hundred times, then stands up slow. Watching him walk bare across the floor sticks in my mind - muscles working under skin, zero hesitation, no pause for modesty. That kind of ease stays with you: a man unbothered by being seen, sure in every move he makes.

Shaking out the old clothes, he scowls at their shape. Ruined they seem - creased deep, marked by grime and ash left over from the burning. His eyes move to where I lie, tucked under cloth, unmoving. That look again - not anger, just another thing needing fixing.

A soft tap came at the door. "My lord? For the lady," a voice said - quiet, hesitant. The speaker was the innkeeper's wife, standing in the dim hall. A narrow gap opened, just enough for Noah to reach out. He accepted a small cloth-wrapped package, then shut the wood behind him once more. Slowly he carried it over, placing the items on the edge of the mattress. There lay a modest gown, deep blue and made of wool, showing signs of careful wear. Patches marked where stitches had reinforced thin spots. Beneath it rested an undergarment, plain and unembellished. Draped across both: a thick shawl meant to hold back cold.

“It’s nothing much,” he says, voice low, placing them down near my hand.

Soft under my fingers, the wool feels right. This is what it means to move without chains. Not something worn by someone trapped inside walls. Made instead for one who walks toward horizons. A shape made for going.

Faster than a thought, I splash cold water from the jug. Noah pulls on torn garments, face sharp like broken glass. One moment he's wild - buttons straining over dirt-streaked cloth. Then memory drags me back - to quiet breaths beside me, soft hands, eyes half closed. That version still lives inside this one. Never leaves. Never will.

The blue wool fits loosely, though it keeps me warm and stays clean. A single braid runs over my shoulder, fastened with my mother’s pin - scrubbed free of icehouse grime. As I shift, movement catches his eye. Noah stands by the doorway, propped on one arm. Silence hangs where words might go.

My voice catches, unsure. "What?" comes out quieter than meant.

“North suits you,” he murmurs. Like something about the open path, maybe a journey half-started. He steps away from the wall, moves close. His fingers wrap around mine without asking. Lips brush skin, slow and steady. Still watching me. As if I’ve always been meant to stand right here.

It’s hard to speak - my chest feels so heavy.

Below, in the shared space, silence hangs thick even though no one speaks. Alex sits with the others, faces washed clean of sleep, eyes sharp. Travelers nearby keep their gazes low, never meeting ours straight on. The landlord's wife dips quickly at the waist, then slips a bundle - bread, cheese - into my grip. Her words come soft: “To eat while you walk.”

Breathe in. The sky, scrubbed clean by the storm, burns a sharp blue overhead. Light bounces wildly off the unbroken snowfield - white glare stinging your vision. Cold cuts through you, thin and clear as glass. This moment? A raw start. Beauty shaped by ice.

Inside the carriage, Noah guides my hand down gently before stepping back. Not staying, he turns toward Alex instead. Riding up front is the plan, checking the path ahead. Safety sits with the group left behind, that much feels clear. Distance grows between us without another word

My head moves up once, I get it now. Gone - the lover - back comes the planner instead. Yet this moment sits different, not like pulling away. More like holding close. Almost like standing together.

Back now, things sit differently. Fear has left. That shaky doubt - gone too. Trees dusted with snow slide past the window, and quiet settles in my chest. Through heat, then cold, we kept moving. Saw what hides behind masks. Still standing.

Now the sun hangs low, dragging shadows across the land until those dark spires rise ahead, cutting into the washed-out clouds like jagged teeth. My gut tightens - this time it’s not fear, but something heavier. That fortress isn’t where I ran from anymore. It’s where I walk back in - not by force, but because I say so. And under whose name does that make me?

Wheels creak as it passes the gate. Silence hangs thick across the open yard. Standing stiff, the soldiers watch without blinking. Their expressions tell a story. Trouble has already arrived.

Before the carriage comes to a full stop, Noah is already there. His expression darkens the moment he steps forward. The door opens and he reaches for my hand. His fingers close around mine, firm, unyielding.

“What is it?” I ask.

A voice cuts through before words form. The heavy doors burst wide. This is no servant stepping inside. A figure appears, dressed in the severe uniform of the King’s own guard. Forward he moves, face giving nothing away.

“Duke Wingknight,” the guard says, giving a shallow, perfunctory bow. “His Majesty, King Nolen, is awaiting you in the Great Hall. He requests your presence immediately.” The guard’s eyes slide to me, cold and assessing. “And the presence of the lady, Paige Rimestone.”

Quiet breaks apart mid-step.

A shiver runs down my arm as Noah freezes. Heat pours off him, sharp and sudden. In one move he shifts - just enough - to stand between me and whatever comes next.

“The lady is under my protection and in need of rest,” Noah says, his voice dropping to that deadly, quiet register. “She will retire to her chambers.”

“His Majesty was most specific,” the guard replies, unmoved. “The matter is urgent. Pertaining to the… incident at the Sandoval manor and the allegations against Lady Beatrice.”

Fear grips me. He is here. The ruler arrives without warning. In this moment, everything shifts.

His gaze locks on mine, fierce like fire about to speak. Protection flashes in Noah’s stare - silent, sure, no room for doubt.

Air fills my lungs as I pull myself upright. This time, running isn’t an option. The person standing here now has returned on her own terms. My eyes lock with Noah’s, no hesitation. A quiet nod, steady at its core, settles between us.

Together.

A flicker crosses his face when he notices how firm I stand. Tightening his mouth, he shifts toward the guard anyway, standing like someone who answers to no one, not like a person called to obey.

Okay, Noah replies, sound bouncing through the empty yard. You go first

He holds out his arm. It is not about direction. It is a way of showing who I am beside him. Partnered. On the same level.

I grab on, fingers tightening over the firm shape of his arm. Into the beast's lair we go, close as shadows.

Beyond doubt, things are different now. Not some far-off danger anymore - the King stands right here among us. His presence fills these walls.

Now the house belongs to both of us.

It is ours.