Page 40 of Unravelled
Ren stepped around her. His hands found her face, gently, fingers trembling as though afraid she’d vanish beneath them. Mira flinched, but didn’t pull away. Ren’s eyes burned into hers, his breath unsteady, his jaw tight. He let her anger crash against him, let the silence stretch between them like a blade, but he did not look away. His throat bobbed, words thick behind his teeth. When they came, they were raw, stripped of anything but truth.
“He was lying there. Hurt. And I was here...” her voice cracked, then sharpened as the guilt curdled into something bitter. “With you.” The words hissed out, laced with venom, not at Ren, not entirely, but at herself. Her arms wrapped around her middle like she could hold herself together.Ren’s thumbs brushed her cheeks, not to wipe away tears. There were none, but to feel if she was still herself. If she still let him touch that part of her.
“I didn’t come here to take anything from you,” he said. “I just… I saw you slipping. I just wanted to catch you...”
Her breath caught. The lantern light from the garden flickered around them, casting soft shadows across the stones.
Ren stepped back. But he didn’t let go. His fingers lingered down her neck, and arms, warm and steady, and wrapped around hers as if holding on just a little longer might change everything. He exhaled, then took a step back as he slowly, painfully, let his grip slip away. He was giving her space. Not enough for her to forget the way he had looked at her, the way he had felt. The way he wanted her.
Mira sucked in a breath like it might hold her together, then turned, too fast, too sharp, as if running before the weight of him pulled her under. Her footsteps echoed hard against the stone corridors, too fast, too loud. Her breath came in shallow bursts, sharp with panic and something else, something tangled and burning that still clung to her skin. She pushed through the side entrance to the kitchens, her heart hammering in her chest. The cot was empty and the quilt she’d left folded at the foot of it was gone. The cup of water she’d set by his side, untouched.
“Tharion?” she called out, but the name fell too quietly into the warm clatter of morning preparations. No one looked up. The staff moved around her in polite ignorance, too used to the quiet storms that came through to ask questions.
She turned on her heel, skirt catching around her calves as she took the back stairs two at a time, ignoring the voices echoing from the courtyard, the shimmer of lanterns glowing through the tall windows. Her breath caught in her throat as she reached their quarters and threw the door open.
Tharion stood in the center of the room, dressed in his official uniform, the tailored jacket buttoned high at the collar, brass fastenings gleaming faintly in the dim light. The fabric was crisp, the deep earth-tone of it drawing out the sharp lines of his shoulders and the quiet authority he wore so naturally. His hair had been combed back, though a few strands still clung stubbornly to his brow. He looked steady on his feet, though pale. There was a hint of exhaustion in his eyes, but also clarity. Presence.
And when he turned at the sound of the door, his gaze met hers. Mira froze in the doorway, her breath still ragged, her heart still racing for reasons she couldn’t yet name.
“You’re awake,” she said, voice barely above a whisper. Tharion tilted his head slightly, and his smile, small, tired, was not quite a question, not quite a forgiveness.
“You weren’t there,” he said softly, adjusting the cuff at his wrist. “So I figured I’d meet you where you were going to be.”
She swallowed hard, her throat burning. “I didn’t think you’d be up”
“I know,” he said. Mira took a step in, her hands trembling at her sides.
“You should be resting.”
“I’ve done enough of that,” Tharion murmured. His eyes stayed on her, quiet, unwavering. “It’s the Festival of the Final Sun. You think I’d miss the one night the entire court pretends they still believe in the Navigators?” He offered her the faintest smile. Tired, but real. Then he glanced to the chair by the hearth, where a folded shape of fabric rested atop a box. “A dress was delivered for you,” he said, nodding toward it. “Perrin’s handwriting.”
Mira’s gaze drifted toward the bundle. Dark silk and soft silver embroidery peeked out from between the folds.It felt too fine now. Too soft. A thing from another life, from another Mira. One who hadn’t seen hunger behind palace walls or heard the quiet desperation in Brahn’s voice. Tharion leaned forward slightly. He studied her in silence for a long moment. Not demanding. Just… watching.
“You don’t have to wear it,” he said eventually, nodding again toward the dress. “But you should. You always loved the lanterns.”
She nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on the bundle of fabric, as if it might speak first. “I’ll change,” she whispered.
Tharion leaned back, his voice even softer. “I’ll wait.”
???
Mira stood near the vanity, fastening the final clasp of her gown. The fabric draped over her like liquid midnight, catching in the candlelight, shimmering as if spun from the very essence of the night sky. The black silk clung to her like a whispered secret, the delicate silver embroidery curling over the bodice like constellations mapped across her skin.
The long sleeves tapered at her wrists, the metallic thread catching with every movement, gleaming like fragments of stars. The plunging neckline dipped just enough to command attention without surrendering to it, and a high slit traced one leg, subtle yet undeniably daring. Every shift of fabric left a promise, a question, a fleeting invitation. It was a masterpiece. And yet, it felt like armor.
She exhaled, pressing her palms against the cool vanity, trying to ground herself. The weight of the evening pressed down on her chest, thick and unshakable. She should feel something, pride, excitement, anticipation. But all she felt was a quiet, sinking guilt. She thought of the silk beneath her fingers. The weight of Ren’s hand on her waist.
A knock at the door shattered the stillness. She turned as it opened. Tharion. He stepped inside, the warm glow of the lamps outlining his broad frame. The insignia over his chest gleamed faintly, a mark of his station, his duty. He looked at her, really looked at her. His gaze dragged over every inch of her, slow, deliberate, as if committing this version of her to memory. The silence stretched just long enough for her to feel the weight of it settle between them.
Then, at last, his lips parted. “Thank you.” She blinked, the word catching her off guard with its quiet sincerity. Tharion’s gaze didn’t waver.
“Brahn told me you brought Cleric Perrin.” Mira’s breath caught. “I remember… not much,” he added, softer now. “But I remember you storming out.”
"Of course." she replied The room felt too still. Too small for everything pressing at the edges of her chest.
"You look stunning." The words landed softly between them. Softer than they should have been.
Mira swallowed. She wanted to feel something. The rush, the thrill, the pull of familiarity. She wanted his words to affect her the way they once had. But all she could think about was another pair of hands. Another voice, rough with need, murmuring her name in the dark. Another touch, stolen in a moment she could never take back.
