Page 47 of The Darkest Oath

“Rollant, stop. Please.” Élise let her spoon drop into the empty bowl. She sat back with her hands folded in her lap. “Are you treating me this way out of pity?”

Rollant shook his head. “I told you why in Le Marais.”

Her brow furrowed. “But I still don’t understand why you would give me three years’ rent just because I inspired you to overcome your grief?”

He shook his head again. “No. You inspired me to love again, Élise, and life without love, in any form, is numb and painful.” His eyes glimmered in the firelight, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed the agony that surfaced in his words.

The affliction in his tone could have torn Élise’s heart from her chest.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt and recomposed himself. A soft haze replaced the glimmer in his eyes. “I want you to have the same peace that you have given me.”

Her chest released the captive breath of relief. She bowed her head, feeling almost ashamed of her cautious thoughts, and continued to eat.

Rollant swirled his wine before sipping, watching her. His gaze went to her neck and focused. She shifted, and his gaze averted.

“Why are you staring at me?”

“I’m staring at your bruises.” Rollant dug something out of his pocket and placed a small tin on the table.

Words were painted on its top—words she couldn’t read. Her brow furrowed. “What is it?”

His finger ran over the words. “Arnica balm.” He found her eyes. “It helps heal bruises and cuts, sometimes overnight. I bought some on the way to see you today if you didn’t come with me again. I wasn’t sure what state I’d find you in.” He pushed it toward her.

“You’ve done all this for me,” she said, arms folded tightly. “But what happens when you decide I’m not worth the trouble? Men change their minds, Rollant. What makes you any different? Are you going to bed me and then kick me out? Get your fill and be done with me?”

Rollant coughed at the blunt question, clearly taken aback. “No,” he said with a bitter chuckle. “Where did that question come from?”

She didn’t want to tell him. It was too much—all of it. With Gabin, any gratitude was taken as indebtedness. With Rollant’s offer, she got out of Gabin’s debt. She didn’t want to step into any more debt with Rollant than what she had already. Debtors were never treated kindly. He was trying to trap her after she had finally learned to stand up for herself in the face of violence. He was trying to drag her back. She shrugged in response to his question, and they finished eating in silence.

He stacked her plate and bowl and carried them to the large basin on the counter. She jumped up. “I will wash the dishes,” she told him, grabbing the pail to fill with water.

Rollant spun around and gently laid her hand atop hers on the pail. “Allow me. I’m sure you have done the dishes every night of your life. Rest.”

“If I’m staying here, I’ll earn my keep. I won’t just sit around waiting for your charity.” She sneered, hating herself for doing it. He had been kind, but part of her needed him to have an ulterior motive. She needed him to lie or mistreat her to justify in her mind that he was like all the rest. There was nothing special about him. He was going to be leaving anyway. Leaving her. Abandoning her. Giving her hope and taking it away.

“It is not charity. I’ve told you before,” Rollant said, gently pulling the pail toward his chest. “Let me do this while I’m here.”

Her fingers twitched before she finally let go. “It’s your home,” she said. “That you have three years’ rent for, somehow.”

His head fell to the side, and a sigh escaped his lips.

She couldn’t bring herself to say thank you lest she be trapped again. “Well, what should I do while you hand me a perfect life?”

He turned and pointed to the open doorway on the East wall. “You could start the fire in the bedroom so you are not cold tonight, or rest on the sofa and relax.”

The sofa was enticing, but she walked along the room’s perimeter instead, running her fingers over the polished wooden counter. Her eyes flicked to the shadowy corners, searching for something—a crack in the wall, a trapdoor, or perhaps a flaw in Rollant’s perfect façade.

“Did you want me to leave you alone? You could have told me never to return as Gabin ordered you to,” Rollant said as he filled the pail with water and dumped it into the basin.

She spun to face him and bit her lip. She couldn’t lash out any more than she had. Her chest felt tight, the weight of the evening pressing down on her. She needed a moment to think—to breathe—away from his kindness that felt too big to bear. The open doorway pulled her into it, and she shut it behind her. She took a deep breath and scraped her nails down her face until they made tight fists beneath her jaw.

She hated herself. Rollant was a kind man, and that was all. He was a kind, beautiful, honest, and hard-working man she had treated like dirt due to fear. The backs of her eyes ached as they withheld tears.

Light from the large gap under the door allowed her to see a spacious bedroom with an actual bed with bedposts and a much smaller hearth nestled in the corner. She traced her hands along the wall, discovering the flint and stacked wood near the hearth. She could see her breath in the dim light. Her fingers trembled and fumbled with the flint. The chill in the room wrapped around her like a blacksmith’s vise and gnawed at her fingers, but her pride burned hotter. She ran her hands along her coat’s sleeves to warm them before getting to work and lighting the fire. She couldn’t ask for Rollant’s help—not after all her sharp words and doubts.

Sparks flew on her third attempt, and for a brief moment, the spark caught. A soft glow lit the damp kindling, teasing her with hope. She exhaled in relief, carefully cupping her hands around the fragile ember to coax it to life, but the wood hissed, guttered, and extinguished. She bit her lip hard, forgetting the cut and stifling a cry out of frustration and pain.

She knew how to light a fire; why wasn’t it working? Again, she struck the flint, her hands succumbing to the cold a little more with each attempt. A few more sparks. The faintest wisp of smoke. Once more, the wood refused her. Her breath quickened; her chest tightened. It wasn’t fair—nothing ever was.

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