13. Frayed Threads

Moonlight had thinned to a pale ribbon when Hannah stood at the river again, hands cupped around cold water that trembled like the small, honest part of her heart. She wanted one thing more than anything: one unmarked hour with Marcus that wasn’t already spoken for, one night in which obligation didn’t lace itself through his voice. The curl of the lavender cloth in her pocket was a steadying weight; she rubbed it with her thumb like a talisman and told herself, You've got this.

She heard him before she saw him - boots soft on the path, breath even, the scent of thyme and something medicinal that had begun to cling to him. Marcus joined her at the bank without a question, as if the river were their private room. He reached for her hand and the gesture was automatic and warm, but his fingers trembled with a fatigue she recognized: the fatigue of being pulled toward two necessary lights.

“You stayed,” Hannah said, trying for levity so she wouldn't sound like a ledger reciting grievances.

“I came as soon as I could,” he answered, the words even but edged. “Cora had a feverish child. She needed an extra set of hands.” He brushed his thumb over the lavender-worn crescent at her palm and she felt steadier. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“You promised midnight,” she said, not an accusation but a hinge. “You said you’d come back before the house grew quiet.”

Marcus let out a breath that tasted of steam and willow. “I know. I meant it. I’m trying to keep that promise - Hannah, I am.” The honesty in his voice landed like a small, necessary bridge. He bent and cupped water against his face, then looked up at her with that relentless, private intensity that had first named them at the ball. “Tell me what you need that isn’t a schedule. Tell me what makes you feel like I chose you when the lamps go out.”

She looked at him - at the pale scar along his ribs, the freckle at his jaw, the way his shoulders carried both pack and apology - and let a truth slip out that had lived in the thin hours. “I need you to call me before you linger. I need you to find me after you finish saving someone else. I need you to let me be the person you come home to, not the person you come home beside.”

Marcus closed his eyes and the bond thrummed, responsive and human. “I don’t want you to make excuses for me,” he said, then smiled, rueful and raw. “But you’ve got to let me be clumsy sometimes. Cora taught me how to set a splint; she didn’t teach me how to balance gratitude and a heart that already had a name.” He reached for her face, thumbs warm at the hollow of her cheeks, and when he spoke again it was a vow reshaped by labor. “I will call. I will come. If I fail, yell. Make me earn my place.”

There was tension in the space between them - jealousy braided with trust - but it moved. Hannah leaned into his hand, eyes stinging with something like relief. “You’ve got this,” she said, softer now, and Marcus answered with the old, crooked smile that had steadied her for two weeks after the ball.

They walked back toward the longhouse, shoulders brushing, carrying the honest cost of obligation and the small, earned plan to fight it. The silvered danger at the edge of everything - the blade, the wolfsbane - still hummed like a secret threat, but tonight the ledger had margins again. Marcus slipped an arm around her and whispered, “We’ll make room,” and she believed him enough to let the river's coolness wash away the worst of the night's small fears.