Page 52 of The Darkest Oath

The quiet creak of the house enveloped him as his gaze drifted toward the closed bedroom door. He had glanced back at Élise before leaving the room; their connection was real and raw.

Despite her fear, she had trusted him to see her body, trusting him to do nothing more. Her silence spoke louder than any words. She hadn’t expected him to follow her request. His blood began to boil again at the notion and evidence of abuse in her life. He swallowed the growing lump in his throat and relaxed his fist to calm himself.

”Two weeks,” he whispered and focused his thoughts. But the words were hollow. If he fell in love or had already fallen, could he pull himself away at the end of two weeks?

The thought lingered, tantalizing and dangerous, paralyzing him between two equally difficult futures: a life where she resented him for leaving and a life where she suffered for him staying.

He had lived this story before, watching Amée turn gray and fragile while he remained untouched by time. Amée’s gaze had brought him joy. Her laughter was his strength. He had witnessed her light fade at arm’s length, and in its absence, he’d been left in endless shadow.

Staying meant condemning Élise to Amée’s fate, and he wouldn’t allow it. Élise would live, thrive, and die in peace, never tethered to his curse. If he loved her, he had to leave after two weeks and never return. There was no other way. He thought of the neighbor family down the street; he’d invite them over—they had a son her age. They were good people.

He closed his eyes, imagining Élise in his Charonne home—her laughter filling the house, her hands tending the garden in the spring, her face framed by sunlight streaming through the windows. She deserved a life unshackled by fear, a life free to bloom. He glanced at the floorboards beneath the table, a spot worn smoother than the rest.

He knelt, his hands brushing over the worn wood. Beneath it lay centuries’ worth of gold and the deeds to his Charonne and Chartreuse estates. He had carried them through wars and dark nights, but now, for the first time, he felt their true purpose. They were not for him—they were for her. The gold would last much longer than the three years he told her. He would leave her everything but himself.

He would pour the weight of his years into the next two weeks, equipping her with every tool she needed to build a life without him. Even if it meant carving out pieces of his own heart to leave behind, he would ensure she had everything she needed.

His throat tightened as he imagined saying goodbye. Would she plead with him to stay? Would she see through his calm façade to the sorrow that would surely linger in his eyes? He exhaled slowly, willing his resolve to harden. He would make her understand that this life—this house, this freedom—was for her. It was never meant to include him.

His mind emptied as he shifted to the sofa. He slipped off his boots and pulled his coat around him like a blanket. The fire crackled as he adjusted his head in the crook of his arm. For the first time that night, the tight chains of indecision did not wrap around his chest.

“One day,” he whispered, allowing some of his thoughts to escape. He might return to find her grave nestled among the wildflowers, her grandchildren playing beneath the trees she had planted. Perhaps her name would linger, spoken with love by those who carried her fire. It was a hope as fragile as it was bittersweet, but it was the only gift he could leave her.

His gaze drifted from the bedroom door to the flames as though they might burn away the ache in his chest. Perhaps, in letting her go, he might find a shred of redemption for his past sins and give her the life she deserved. And that, he decided, would have to be enough for her, if not for him.

CHAPTER20

The Pull of Desire

CHARONNE, PARIS, FEBRUARY 1789

The arnica balmhad already started healing the gash on Élise’s lip, and the bruise on her eye and neck had turned a ghastly yellow-brown, a sign of healing. Élise’s gaze drifted to her eyes in the small mirror’s reflection. The dark circles had diminished. She had slept well, better than any night previous.

The smell of eggs filled the home, making Élise’s mouth water. Eggs had been few and far between. She placed the mirror on the nightstand and checked on her dress. She didn’t dare walk out in Rollant’s shirt, but she was hungry, and her dress was cold and damp. Her stomach grumbled.

Her fingers dug into her temples before slipping up into her scalp. She took a deep breath and decided to wear only Rollant’s shirt, and her coat over it, with the belt tied. She’d be showing her calves and ankles, and she hoped Rollant would not think less of her for it. Her stomach roared and sealed the decision. She opened the door to see Rollant spooning the freshly boiled eggs into wooden bowls.

His attention shot to her. A pressed smile arose on his lips. “Good morning.”

She nodded and shrank, hoping he didn’t notice her legs. But his gaze slipped down to her bare calves. He straightened his back and turned his attention back to the eggs. His muscles drew tight.

Before he could say anything, she pulled her coat tighter across her chest.

“My dress is still damp, and it’s cold. I hope you do not think less of me after seeing—” She closed her eyes. He had seen her back bare the night before. Her shoulders rose to hide her neck in the coat’s collar.

“I made breakfast,” he said, keeping his eyes on the eggs. “Please sit and eat with me.”

Her tongue dabbed the gash in her lip before approaching the table. He had cut bread and cheese for both of them. She stared at the prepared wooden plate as she sat. “You are so kind.”

He glanced over his shoulder as he moved the pot to cool from the hearth. “I have two weeks until I have to return to port. I need to make sure you are well before then.” He placed their two bowls of boiled eggs on the table before returning to pour hot water into their cups.

“The neighbors grow herbs and raise chickens. I bartered for eggs and some dried mint and sage,” he said, pouring the herb dust into the cups. The steam rose from the herb-infused water. He swirled each before bringing it to the table and sitting down. “This will help heal your wounds and clear any headache you may have.”

His words were right, but the tone lacked his usual kindness. She should have worn the damp dress. Her chin lowered as shame’s stain rose on her cheeks. She pulled the cup into her grasp, letting the warmth seep into her fingers and the minty steam curl into her mouth. She felt Rollant’s gaze fixate on her, so she risked a glance up.

“I am sorry I am not dressed appropriately,” she said, knowing that if a neighbor turned up to see her, they would think her a woman of the night and think ill of Rollant.

But Rollant shook his head. His gaze fell to his eggs. “No need for apology.”

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