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Chapter Fifty-Six

Jasce

Over the next two days, I honor Annora’s wishes, keeping my distance. Each time I catch a glimpse of her, a pang slices through my chest. Her once vibrant eyes are now shadowed, and the happiness that used to light up her face is gone, replaced by a haunting emptiness.

I watch her as she sits alone, sketching by the dwindling light of dusk.

Her fingers glide over the parchment, but there’s a rigidity to her movements—a stiffness that wasn’t there before.

The urge to go to her, to ask what she’s drawing, nearly pulls me forward, but I force myself to give her space.

At meals, I sit with my men, pretending to listen as they discuss strategies and share stories. My eyes drift to where she sits, picking at her food, barely engaging with anyone.

Nights are the worst. I lie on my back, staring up at the canvas ceiling, replaying memories of her laughter, the way she’d curl up against me, her breath warm on my skin.

Every rustle outside makes my heart leap, hoping she’ll appear at the entrance, ready to let me in again, but the hours crawl by, and she never comes.

By dawn, exhaustion pulls at every muscle, but rest won’t come. I throw myself into training, sparring with anyone willing. Blades clash, fists fly, but no physical exertion can dull the ache inside me.

Once, I catch her watching me. Our eyes meet across the camp, and for a heartbeat, time stops. I offer a smile, but she turns away, disappearing behind a tent.

I confide in no one, but Reeve seems to sense my turmoil. “You’ll wear yourself out,” he says after I defeat him in yet another sparring match.

“Better than sitting idle,” I snap back.

He raises an eyebrow. “Sometimes, standing still is the hardest thing.”

I glare at him as I wipe sweat from my brow. “I’m not in the mood for riddles, Reeve.”

He shrugs. “Maybe your wife needs to know you’re still there for her.”

“I’m giving her space. It’s what she wants.”

“And what do you want?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I grab my gear and walk away.

By the second night, I sit alone by a dying fire, staring into the embers. Memories of her flood my mind—the softness of her lips, the way she sighs contentedly when I hold her, the light in her eyes when she shares one of her sketches.

Rising to my feet, I make a decision. If she won’t let me in, I’ll find another way to help her. Perhaps actions will speak louder than words. I head toward the command tent, resolve settling like steel in my spine.

But as I pass her tent, I hear a soft sound—almost imperceptible. I pause, straining to listen. Is she crying?

Fuck!

I cannot keep walking if she’s crying.

I push aside the tent flap and step inside, where she lies on her side, facing away from me, shoulders shaking.

My chest tightens as I cross the tent and climb onto the mattress behind her. Gently, I wrap an arm around her waist and pull her close. At first, she stiffens, then she exhales, and slowly, the rigidity eases from her frame.

“Annora,” I whisper, my voice low and tender. “I’m here, love.”

She shifts to face me, and even in the darkness, I see the shimmer of tears on her cheeks, the tremble in her lower lip.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

Before I can speak, before I can tell her she has nothing to be sorry for, her lips find mine.

The kiss speaks volumes—every unspoken word, every moment of longing, every fragment of love we share.

My hand cups her face, thumb brushing away the wetness on her cheek as she pours her heart into the kiss.

She pulls back, and without a word, tucks herself against my chest.

I’ve fought battles, commanded armies, faced down enemies without flinching, but nothing compares to this. This fierce, unwavering certainty that my place is here, with her, protecting her, loving her, until my last breath and beyond.