Page 55 of The Darkest Oath

Her grip on the blade tightened as Rollant stepped back. The weapon felt foreign in her hand, yet in its weight, she felt a flicker of something unfamiliar—control. It was the culmination of the gift he’d given her: control over her life. He’d become her refuge from pain, where no one dared to harm her.

Rollant narrated the scene. “A man grabs you by the shoulders; he intends to assault you.”

She pulled the blade up, slicing upward as Rollant had shown her.

“His right hand is winding to punch you in the face.”

She turned the blade to stab first.

“Too late.” Rollant’s voice cut through the room. “You’ve been hit.” He stepped close and grasped her elbow with precision, sliding his hand to her wrist, and redirected her movement in a firm but careful grip. “Like this, Élise.”

She tried to focus on the movements, but his closeness and his familiar, comforting scent clouded her thoughts. Her pulse quickened, and her grip faltered. She wanted to turn into him and beg him to give up his career as she would relinquish her fight to stay in Charonne together. Never had she met a man such as Rollant. Never would she let him go. Never would she find another man such as him.

“Focus,” he said as if reading her mind.

She countered with frustration’s stain upon her cheeks. “It is hard to fight an imaginary man.”

He stepped in front of her with squared shoulders and a challenge. “Then fight me. I am Gabin. I’ve already hit you, and you fear what I might do to you.”

He grasped both of her shoulders, firm but far from pain.

“I am going to corner you,” he whispered, guiding her backward and pressing her against the wall with a gentle hold. The plaster cooled her body and slowed her racing heartbeat.

She leaned her head back against the wall and exposed her neck to him. The weight of everything he had done and was doing crashed over her. The hot sting of mint touched the gash on her lip, but she wanted to draw him in. The man had killed before; he was dangerous and deadly, yet with her, she knew he’d never raise a fist. He had earned her trust, her complete trust. No one had ever done such a thing before. She slipped the dagger into her coat pocket and placed a hand on his belly and the other on his chest. They locked eyes. His gaze dipped to her lips and lingered in silent hunger. His words ceased. His breath slowed. Her stomach fluttered. Desire charged the space between them. She wanted to erase the distance between them. His fingers slipped to her neck and cradled her cheek, weakening her knees. His thumb stroked the fatty flesh of her bottom lip with a tender touch. Her heart thundered as she waited—hoped—for him to close the distance.

Her mouth parted to receive her first kiss born in love, but Rollant stepped back, letting his hands fall away in fists to his sides, taking the moment with it. The blaze of his touch lingered on her skin, a ghostly imprint that faded too quickly. She blinked in rapid succession, trying to mask the sting of disappointment.

“You need to raise your blade.” His voice lowered, and regret laced his words. He jerked one hand behind his back as if to keep from reaching for her again. His brow furrowed, and fear lived in his eyes.

Élise shook her head as she tried to determine what he feared: losing her, leaving her, loving her like Amée. She let her hand drop to her side, her gaze fixed on the empty space he had left between them. What had she expected? For him to close the distance, to press his lips to hers, to shatter the careful distance he had maintained since their paths crossed? Of course not. Rollant wasn’t like other men. He held himself apart. Whatever kept him from her, she knew it was tied to the sorrow that haunted his eyes. She swallowed hard, willing herself to let the moment go, though the ache in her chest refused to fade. Her throat tightened.

“I cannot raise a blade to you, Rollant.” Her voice broke. “Even though you pretend to be Gabin, you are nothing like him.” Tears brimmed her eyes, and the truth slipped free. “You are my sanctuary.”

Rollant stilled. His lips parted as if to speak. Instead, he turned away before any words came. His broad shoulders tensed, mirroring the wall he’d built around his heart rise once more. Once he faced her again, he spoke in his usual steady tone, though his affection faded. “If you can’t raise a blade to me, how will you survive should you find yourself in a fight, especially if you return to the city?”

Her gaze met his, unflinching. “Because I will remember that all men are not like you.” Her words carried the weight of conviction.

His expression grew unreadable, but his weight shifted. His tight shoulders loosened.

“Again,” he said, his tone faltering in the truth he tried to ignore.

She pulled the dagger from her coat pocket.

His hand brushed against hers once more as he adjusted the weapon in her grasp with the same precision as before. He guided her next movement, deliberate and impersonal, as if he sought to erase the intimacy that had passed between them.

Yet Élise couldn’t forget. Her chest tightened with each touch and every whispered instruction. His words barely registered, drowned out by the thrum of her pulse and the lingering ache of what might have been. She wanted to ask why he had pulled away, to demand answers to the questions swirling in her mind. But his tone had shifted, and the admiration in his voice was stripped away.

It seemed it was merely training for him, yet his glances lingered a moment too long. For Élise, though, she resolved to break through his defenses and find the man she saw in his rare moments of vulnerability, even if it meant risking her heart.

CHAPTER21

Walls of the Cursed

CHARONNE, PARIS, FEBRUARY 1789

The next daycame and went, as did the third and fourth days. Rollant had taught her how to chop firewood, tend to the garden, and defend herself. He made her practice every morning, though he never let his resolve waver as it had on the first day. He’d nearly come close to kissing her that time, almost wrapping her in an embrace and letting her succumb to the sorceress’ curse. Night fell once more, and once again, he wished Élise good night after tending to the faded bruises on her back.

He stoked the fire before sitting on the sofa and slipping off his boots. Her trust in him was fragile, too precious to shatter with the truth. Yet, the memory of standing so close, her breath mingling with his, and her hands on his chest and belly, made him ache to tell her everything—to let her see the man he once was and the immortal monster he feared he had become.

---