Page 85 of Darkest at Dusk
“It’s done,” she said at last, as if the words might wake something. Her voice was dry and parched. “Rhys, it’s done.”
He listened for any small tap. Heard only their breathing. A laugh came up in him. “It’s done.”
She tipped back. Even streaked with soot and blood she was the most living thing he had ever seen. “You did not let her take me,” she said.
“I would have burned the world,” he said. “I would have damned them all if it kept your breath.”
Her palm found his cheek. “I could not have left you with that.”
Relief and grief tangled until he could not tell one from the other. He let himself see what he had not let himself hold… his mother’s mouth shaping thanks, Will’s cough softening into nothing, Ned’s hum fading.
“They’re gone,” he said, and the word did not mean loss. “Free.”
“And Catrin,” she murmured, her gaze on the ash where a monster had stood. “She will never harm another soul.”
He had lived so long with Catrin that the absence of her felt hollow. He would fill it with light and joy and love.
He bent and kissed Isabella’s brow. His mouth shook. “I have nothing left to ask of you.”
“Then ask me for myself,” she said, quiet. “No snares. No tricks. Only ask.”
He would. But not here. Not in this place, not in this moment. She deserved better than a vow made in the aftermath of terror. But perhaps she heard them in the way his hands held her face, the way his lips traced her brow, the way his heart beat for her.
They stood together, unsteady. His leg flared and he did not care. The ruined chamber stayed behind them as they walked away, arms wrapped around each other, bringing the quiet with them. They walked corridors that no longer listened, down a stair that remembered its work and not its malice, through a hall without eyes in the corners.
The silence held as they climbed the stairs, not fragile but whole, filling the house like balm poured over an old wound.
In Rhys’s chamber, the fire had been stoked high, flames casting a steady, unblinking light. A steaming bath waited, summoned by his command. Isabella stood at the threshold, trembling, unsure if her knees would hold. Rhys’s hand steadied her.
Her gown sagged, streaked with soot, stinking of smoke. Her hair hung in stiff tangles.
“Sit,” he said quietly, his voice ragged from shouting her name.
“I’ll ruin it.” She made a helpless gesture to encompass first the state of her gown and then the chair.
“Then I’ll burn it,” he said. “Sit.”
She obeyed, lowering herself to the chair, holding his gaze as he knelt before her. His fingers worked at the fastenings of her gown, loosening ties, unhooking stays. His hands were cut and burned, marked by their ordeal, his touch careful, almost reverent, as he slid the ruined fabric from her shoulders. Piece by piece, he stripped away the wreckage of the night until only her shift remained, blackened and frayed.
Then he lifted her despite her protests and carried her to the bath. The steam curled around them, fragrant with rosemary and lavender. He eased her down into the water, his big hands steady beneath her arms until she was settled. The heat lapped at her skin, pulling the ache from her bones, the soot from her pores.
Rhys dipped a cloth, wrung it slow, and passed it across her throat, down her arms, over her hands. Soot melted away. Isabella let her head fall back against the rim of the tub as he soaped her skin, her hair, then rinsed her clean.
“Rhys,” she whispered, her throat raw.
He paused, the cloth dripping into the water. His jaw flexed. “I almost lost you.”
Her heart twisted at the vulnerability in his voice. “But you didn’t.”
He exhaled, ragged, and returned to his task. Each stroke was steady, deliberate.
When her skin shone clean, he set the cloth aside. He stared at her as if she were both miracle and torment. Then, with no word, he stripped off his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt. The rest followed—boots, trousers—until he stood bare in the firelight, unflinching beneath her gaze. Scars ridged his leg, pale seams carved by fire. He did not hide them. He let her see.
Then he stepped into the tub, the water rising as his body sank. She shifted, making space. He gathered her into his lap, her back against his chest, the crown of her head beneath his chin and she knew pure joy in this moment, the two of them, flesh to flesh, breath to breath, their hearts beating in the same rhythm.
Isabella let her head fall to his shoulder. The strong line of his arm curled around her waist, the heat of him steady against her spine. The water lapped soft and warm, sluicing away the last remnants of ash.
She thought of Papa, who had shielded her with rules and silence. She thought of Rhys, who had trusted her enough to stand at his side, who had seen her without her mask and not asked her to hide. This man was her world.
