Page 33 of The Darkest Oath

The street chatter filled the silence between them as Élise’s chest rose and fell with quick breaths. “Why? Why do you care?” she asked. “Sister Francine said the same, but life has taught me kindness is never free.”

“It is when the giver truly cares,” he said. “Just as you give away your bread to those who need it when you hardly had enough yourself. You do not expect anything in return from them.”

Her shoulders lowered, and her eyes fluttered shut. A sigh of relief softened her features. The corners of Élise’s mouth turned up, and a soft laugh erupted from her lungs. She shook her head, clamping her mouth shut. She said nothing for a moment before a concession escaped in a whisper. “Well, I suppose you are right.”

Rollant’s gaze flicked over her shoulder, catching sight of two men loitering at the corner. Their postures were relaxed, almost lazy, but their sharp gazes betrayed their intent. One nudged the other and muttered something, both pairs of eyes locking onto Élise. A chill ran through him. Gabin’s grip stretched farther than he’d thought. He should have known Gabin would never let go of what he claimed as his; he would never release his grip on her. The men were there to observe and report back, chained to Gabin’s will like Malo and so many others who couldn’t intervene, bound by their dependence on his bread. Control was always the same, enforced by brute strength or mastery over survival. Rollant clenched his jaw. He had to act quickly, convince them Élise was still not well, or her life would hang in the balance when she returned to the bakery.

“Gabin sent his men to see about you,” he whispered, locking eyes with Élise. “If you want the inn, pretend you are having trouble standing.”

Élise wobbled on her knees, her movements unsteady but deliberate as she leaned into him. Rollant wrapped his arm under hers, supporting her as her weight pressed heavily against his side. Her warmth seeped through his shirt, and for a brief, agonizing moment, he wondered if his curse could harm her through such a simple touch. The thought was maddening. His longing for closeness was cruelly twisted by the ever-present threat of the curse that shadowed his every action. Every touch felt like a gamble, the price of which he dared not calculate. He adjusted his grip, careful not to pull her closer than necessary.

“Let’s get you somewhere to rest,” he said and led her to the inn he had stayed at earlier in the year.

Rollant glanced back. The two men watched them a beat too long before trailing them. He had to let them follow until they were convinced. “Really lean in, Élise. They are following.”

As Rollant guided her into the inn, Élise’s fingers lingered on his shirt. Her steps faltered, each one slower than the last, her weight sagging into Rollant’s arm as though she could no longer bear the effort of standing on her own. For a moment, he thought she might let go, her hand trembling as if the gesture was too vulnerable to follow through. But then her grip tightened, the fabric bunching under her quivering fingers. The silent act spoke louder than words—gratitude, perhaps, or trust beginning to crack through the armor she wore.

* * *

After Rollantand Élise arrived at the inn, the two men returned to the Rue de Faubourg-Saint Antione, hoping to report that Élise was still unwell—or at least that was Rollant’s wish.

Rollant ensured Élise had all her essentials every morning, including fresh water, bread, cheese, and stew. In the evenings, he heated the water pan to warm her bed and brought more bread and stew, yet remaining true to his intentions, he left her to sleep alone.

On the third morning, Rollant knocked on the door, holding a special gift.

The door opened to reveal Élise standing fresh-faced with an open smile and dewy skin. The ends of her hair were still wet, leaving dark water blots on her threadbare dress.

“Come in, Rollant,” she said and side-stepped to allow him to enter. She glanced at the fabric bundle in his arms while he noticed the empty water pitcher near the basin and the wet washcloth.

“I’m glad you felt well enough to wash yourself,” he said, putting the gift on the bed. “I brought you a present that I hope can last you through the winter.”

She gave him a sly eye with a slight upturn of her lip. “What is it?”

“Open it and see,” he said with an unexpected anxiousness fluttering in his belly.

She perched on the edge of the bed, gesturing for him to sit beside her. He lifted a hand in polite refusal, stepping back instead. He couldn’t risk being that close.

A soft wave of disappointment crossed her face, but she turned her attention to the first bundle and unrolled it with care.

“A dress!” she exclaimed, rubbing the thick fabric through her fingers. “A new dress?” She gathered the garment into her arms and smiled as bright as the Sun King’s City of Lights. “Oh, Rollant, I needed a new dress; I haven’t had one in years.”

Rollant’s lips curved into a small smile at her joy, but his chest ached. Such a simple gift—and yet, for her, perhaps it wasn’t simple at all. He had seen too many like her, living hand-to-mouth, scraping by in a world that seemed bent on crushing them.

“Do you like the color?”

Her fingers smoothed over the long skirt, her touch reverent. “I love it. The green is beautiful. So different from brown and gray.”

He hesitated, his gaze dropping to the floor. He could have chosen a gown fit for a noblewoman, something rich and fine. But a dress like that would have been a burden, not a blessing. She couldn’t return to the bakery in such a thing—or to Gabin. The dress had to be practical, even if his heart wished to give her the world.

“I wanted you to remember every time you wear it that you are unique and have a strength that leads,” he said, lifting his gaze. “I chose green because it reminds me of you,” he said softly. “No matter what’s thrown at you, you endure. You find a way to grow.”

Her smile faltered, the glow in her eyes dimming as her gaze fell to the dress in her lap. “I very much doubt that.” Her fingers stilled. “But… maybe someday.” She glanced at the second rolled fabric on the bed. “Another dress?” she asked, before he could respond.

Rollant shook his head.

She grabbed it in haste, unfurling the length. “A coat?” Her jaw fell agape. “You gave me a dress and a coat?” Her brow furrowed. Suspicion replaced her earlier joy. “Why . . . why would you do this for me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

He stilled. “Because you deserve it, and you need it,” he said, simply. “And because I can.”

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