Aveline lay still on the bed, eyes closed, breathing slow and measured.
She pretended to be asleep.
It was safer that way.
They always came when she least expected it. Always found new ways to test her, to unsettle her, to remind her she owned nothing, not even rest.
When the door creaked open, her heart tightened.
She kept her eyes shut.
Every sense sharpened.
She felt him before she heard him… the subtle shift in air, the warmth of his presence drawing nearer.
"Are you asleep already?" Theron asked softly.
She almost frowned.
"Here's a glass of milk…"
Milk.
Her fingers twitched under the silk. Milk had once meant comfort; it meant safety.
Warm milk before bed… Her mother sitting beside her, skirts spilling over the mattress… The scent of rose and lavender… A book open in gentle hands. And Theron… leaning against the edge of the bed, pretending he wasn't listening while her mother read to both of them.
She cracked one eye open just slightly. It was real. Steam curled faintly from the surface.
She wanted it. But… she was already asleep. Or pretending to. How could she get it?
Theron watched her lashes tremble like honeybee wings, her brows faintly drawn together in exaggerated stillness.
Adorable.
He tapped lightly on the pillow beside her head. "Drink the milk and sleep."
That was enough.
Aveline sprang upright, abandoning the pretense entirely, and reached for the goblet. She took a cautious sip.
Perfect. Not too hot. Not too cold. Just the way…
Her throat tightened. She closed her eyes. For a moment, she was ten again.
She was curled into her mother's side on a plush mattress. Listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She could hear the cadence of her voice weaving stories into the quiet night.
Warm milk in her hands. Safety in the air.
Theron watched her lean back against the headboard, eyes closed, sipping slowly now.
Her breathing evened out.
Before she finished the milk, her head tipped gently to the side. The goblet loosened in her fingers. He caught it before it fell.
A faint smile touched his lips as he wiped the small trace of milk from the corner of her mouth with his thumb.
"Just like before…" he murmured.
He could not return the ten years that had been stolen from her. He could not erase what had been carved into her bones.
But perhaps, he could give her pieces back.
A silk gown. A warm glass of milk. A night without fear. Slowly. Carefully.
He wanted to see that bright, infuriating girl again. The one who laughed too loudly. The one who ran across meadows without caring who watched. The one who annoyed him endlessly and never apologized for it.
He wanted to see her smile from her heart.
He wanted… Her.
The realization settled heavily in his chest.
He eased her down onto the mattress and pulled the blanket over her shoulders. Even in sleep, her brows remained faintly furrowed. Still bracing. Still fighting something unseen.
His jaw tightened.
He crossed to the incense box and dropped in a few restorative pellets. A thin thread of smoke rose, carrying a soft, soothing fragrance through the room.
"Rest well," he whispered.
He should have left. Instead, he stayed.
He sat there longer than he intended, watching the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
Something stirred inside him, slow and dangerous. Without fully realizing it, he reached out. His fingers hovered near her lips.
So close.
He leaned down… Too close. Close enough to feel her breath against his skin.
Then clarity struck like cold water. He pulled back sharply.
No. He could not do that. Not like this. Not when he had plans that required her trust and her strength. Not when the world was already sharpening its knives.
He straightened, forcing distance between them.
Desire was simple. This was not.
He extinguished the lamp, leaving only the faint curl of incense smoke glowing faintly in the dark.
He had barely taken two steps toward the door when he heard it.
A small, broken whimper.
He froze.
"I'm not sleeping… it hurts… stop…"
His heart dropped.
Then she screamed.
It tore out of her… not loud in volume, but raw. From somewhere deep and buried.
She sprang upright, back slamming against the headboard, hands flying out in front of her as if warding something off.
"I'm not sleeping!" she cried. "I'm not—"
"Aveline!"
Theron was at her side in an instant. She was drenched in sweat. Shaking violently. Her eyes were open, but she was not seeing him.
Fear had hollowed them out.
"Aveline," he tried again, reaching for her shoulders.
She flinched hard, twisting away, and in her panic, the back of her head struck the headboard.
Once.
Twice.
She was hurting herself to escape something that wasn't even there. His chest constricted so violently he thought it might stop his heart.
Without thinking, he gathered her into his arms. She fought him at first, her weak fists pushing against his chest, her hands clawing at his sleeves.
"No—no—please—"
"I'm here," he said, his voice breaking despite himself.
He wrapped his arms around her fully this time. Tight. Protective. Holding her in a way that made it impossible for her to thrash or strike herself again.
She was so light.
So painfully thin, just skin and bone beneath silk.
"Shh… shh… I'm here," he whispered against her damp hair, rocking her gently. "I'm not going to hurt you. I won't let anyone hurt you. You're safe."
She trembled violently for a few more seconds.
Then, gradually… The fight drained out of her. Her hands, which had been pushing at him, slowly fisted into his shirt instead, as if anchoring herself.
"You're safe, Aveline," he murmured again, softer now. Slower. "You're safe with me."
Her breathing began to even out. The rigid tension in her body eased, inch by inch.
He continued rocking her gently, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped securely around her waist.
Even after her eyes closed, even after her breathing deepened, the moment he loosened his hold, just slightly, her body gave a small, instinctive flinch.
He stilled.
So that was how it was for her. Sleep meant danger. Release meant pain.
His jaw tightened.
So he didn't let go.
He adjusted his position carefully against the headboard, keeping her tucked against his chest, her ear over his heartbeat.
He stayed there.
Holding her.
Listening to the slow, fragile rhythm of her breathing as she finally slipped into a deeper sleep—perhaps the first unbroken one she had had in years.
He did not move. Not even when his arms began to ache. If she needed to learn what safety felt like again, he would let her learn it like this.
One night at a time.
-----
A week later...
Theron did not look like a commander. He did not look like a blade. He looked like gold.
He rode through the gates of Willowgrave dressed as a wealthy merchant from the southern trade routes. His coat was deep burgundy velvet trimmed in sable. Rings adorned nearly every finger—heavy signets, jeweled bands, polished stones that caught the morning light. A thick gold chain rested over his chest. Even his boots were stitched with silver thread.
The guards straightened immediately at the sight of him.
Money commanded more obedience than swords ever could.
The iron gates of the Willowgrave estate creaked open. The mansion stood tall and pale against the sky, beautiful at first glance. Refined. Prestigious.
Rotten underneath.
Theron dismounted slowly; every movement was deliberate and unhurried, like someone with power.
In his eyes, however, beneath the calm surface… There was something lethal.
And this time, the rot would be cut out at the root.