Page 50 of The Darkest Oath

“You are not going to try to bed me?” The question came out before she could stop it. He had already told her his answer, but there was his chance again.

His brow furrowed, and his jaw grew taut. “I honor women, Élise,” he finally said. “I’m sorry you have never met a man who lives by that virtue.” His eyes closed at the curt tone in his voice.

She shrank back.

“I am not angry at you,” he clarified. “I am angry at the men in your life.” He turned his back on her. “Is there anything else you might need before I turn down the lights?”

Her shoulders relaxed, and the breath she had been holding blew in a sigh of relief.

“No,” she said.

He began to walk toward the door. “Then goodnight.”

“Wait.” She winced. She hadn’t wanted to say anything more.

He stopped and waited for her to speak, his head turned perched over his shoulder, but his eyes still downcast.

Hesitation surfaced again in tight shoulders. “I . . . I have bruises on my back.” She pressed her lips together, wanting them to stay closed. Her belly twisted into knots. “I cannot reach them.”

She watched his body language. He did not jump at the chance to help, but rather waited for her to finish her request.

Her head shook, hating herself for inviting a night of probable pain. At least, she hoped Rollant would be gentle with her. “If you truly honor women,” she began as tears welled in her eyes.

Was it wise? Was she asking too much—or was she simply trying to confirm he was different? Her chest tightened as the request tumbled from her lips, unwelcome but not undesired.

“Will you apply the balm to those bruises and . . . and . . . not do anything further?”

“I will do as you ask,” he said.

As he approached, she shifted on the bed, bracing herself for the worst while willing away the tears threatening to spill. It had always hurt with Gabin. She faced the wall as Rollant came to stand behind her.

“I won’t hurt you, Élise.”

Her jaw ached from clenching her teeth. She slid the shirt up to reveal her back. The cool air kissed her exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of her fear, curling low in her belly. Silence and stillness ensued until finally she peered over her shoulder to see if he was even there.

“Does he kick you as well?” The question sliced through the air as a swift knife.

“Yes.” She heard herself say. “Please, they are tender. Some of them are new.”

He snatched the balm she had placed by her side. A measured sigh came through his clenched teeth. The balm’s lid hit the nightstand. She closed her eyes and dipped her chin to her chest. She expected his fingers to roam, but they stayed on each tender spot, softly rubbing the tallow over the wounded flesh. She wasn’t used to the softness, to a man’s hands that didn’t demand or bruise but soothed, as if her pain were something precious enough to cradle.

“I believe that is all of them,” he said after a while, returning the balm to her side. He gently replaced the shirt over her skin. The tightness in her shoulders and chest dispersed. He had not harmed her, but he hadn’t moved either once the cotton had slipped down her back.

“Thank you,” she said, returning to her seated position with her legs under the sheet.

Their eyes locked, and he bent over. The knots in her belly came back with a vengeance. The sheet was her only ally and protection. She should have known better. Men always wanted something. Why should he be any different? And yet, he hadn’t taken advantage. Not when he could have. His hands had only carried care, no trace of the cruelty she had braced herself for.

His eyes darkened the longer their gazes locked. Anger swirled behind the windows to his soul, just like Gabin. Rollant could hurt her if he wanted.

Rollant’s nostrils flared. “I’m sorry you’ve endured so much,” he whispered as he pulled the blanket up to her hands. He spun around to his chest of drawers and slammed two fists atop it. His jaw tightened, and a low growl escaped his throat—a sound of anger, of helplessness to change the past, almost feral in nature. He yanked open the drawer and pulled a dagger free. He set it down beside Élise’s coat with a reverent motion. His movements were sharp and precise, as if they were the only thing he could control. The blade gleamed faintly in the lamplight—its hilt worn smooth from use but sturdy in its purpose. She stared at the dagger, the weight of its meaning pressing against her chest.

“If anyone touches you, kill them. I will teach you how in the morning,” he said.

No one had ever entrusted her with anything, let alone a weapon meant for her protection. The responsibility it carried felt immense. Could she use it if it came to that? Her fingers twitched, aching to grasp it, to feel the power it offered. Rollant had not promised her safety but would equip her to ensure her own.

He stepped away, eyes averted, and dipped his chin. “Good night, Élise.”

The tenderness in his voice and his offer rendered her mute. She thought Rollant would have at least let his hands roam on her bare back. The oil lamp dimmed, and the door opened and closed. In the stillness alone in the room, her voice then managed a whisper.

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