Page 84 of Goldflame

The migraine that’s been threatening me all morning finally blooms behind my right eye. “Soon.”

“Soon. Define ‘soon.’”

“When the time is right.”

He sighs again, standing. “Just don’t wait too long. I don’t like seeing my cousin hurt.” After a pointed stare, he exits.

The door closes behind him, leaving me alone with thoughts I’ve spent years compartmentalizing. Thoughts of Aurelia.

For a decade, I maintained distance—emotional armor necessary for us both to survive. Lucian would have destroyed anything I truly cared for. He would have used her against me, just as he used our mother against Julian and I. But if I positioned Aurelia as just a woman to warm my bed? It kept Lucian from noticing her too deeply. The cold calculation of it had seemed logical, necessary.

Until it wasn’t. Until I saw her with Julian and realized the price of my protection was losing her completely.

Would things be different now if I’d been honest with her then? If I’d shown her even a fraction of what I felt? Doubtful. She was always drawn to Julian’s fire, even as it threatened to consume her. I offered no comparable heat.

Now, however… now she’s seen the darker side of Julian’s flames. Now she understands what I’ve always known: that uncontrolled fire doesn’t warm—it destroys.

Do we have a chance? Could she possibly…

No. Focus requires clarity. Sentiment clouds judgment. The mission remains: dismantle the Consortium, save Julian if possible, ensure Aurelia’s safety. After that, she’ll be free to choose her own path. A path likely leading away from me, away from the memories of a decade spent as a possession rather than a partner.

As it should be. Men like me don’t get happy endings.

I’ve hurt too many people to deserve it.

The migraine intensifies. Three more hours of work before I can justify a break. I return focus to my computer.

Three hours pass in a blur of spreadsheets. By late afternoon, the migraine has become a persistent jackhammer against my skull. I take two pills with water, noting clinically that it’s my third dose today. Excessive, but necessary under the circumstances.

When I finally allow myself a break, I find myself walking toward Aurelia’s room. The hallway stretches longer than usual. What exactly am I hoping to accomplish? Unclear. Perhaps I simply need to see her—confirmation that she’s real, that she’s here, that she’s safe.

Her door is ajar, so I approach silently, peering in. The room is empty. Where…

I smile to myself.

The library. Of course. During our decade together, it was always her sanctuary when the Consortium’s world became too suffocating. Or I’d find her outside on a balcony,painting.

Considering I haven’t yet bought her any art supplies, I’ll check the library first.

I find her there, curled in the window seat, sunlight setting her red hair aflame. She’s writing in her diary, the pen moving with quick, decisive strokes. One hand occasionally rises to touch the emerald necklace—my gift—that now rests against her throat.

I smile again as the sight produces an unfamiliar pressure in my chest. Seeing the necklace on her—the one I purchased after examining engagement rings for three hours, realizing the futility of such a gesture when she looked at me with nothing but politeness—creates a sensation I can’t categorize.

Pride? Satisfaction? Something deeper?

She looks up suddenly, catches me watching, and the warmth in her expression evaporates. The barriers rise—the walls I taught her to build through years of emotional distance.

I should speak and explain everything. I could speak about my plans, my regrets, the truth I’ve kept hidden for so long. But the words catch in my throat, tangled in years of restraint.

She snaps her diary shut. “What do you want,Dante?” she asks, her voice like a winter storm.

Ten thousand words crowd my mind, demanding release. I want to tell her everything—how I’ve only ever tried to protect her, how I regret every moment of pain my actions caused her, how seeing her with my necklace creates a warmth I can’t explain.

How I’d thought of proposing, but realized a womanlike her deserved a better life than I can provide. She deserves a better husband.

I want to tell her that she was never just an asset, never just something beautiful to show off. That every touch, every kiss, every moment between us contained pieces of truth buried beneath layers of necessary deception. That I’ve loved her since we were teenagers, quietly, hopelessly, from a distance I couldn’t bridge.

But those decade-old habits are hard to break. The words remain unspoken, sealed behind the walls I built to survive my father’s rule.

---