Page 87 of The Darkest Oath

“I’ll sleep out here,” he said. “Good night, Élise. I will see you in the morning.”

After she cleaned herself, Rollant’s long shirt slipped over her head and fell just above the knee. The winter tickled her legs, but his scent of old wood and candle smoke warmed her. She breathed in his scent as she wrapped her arms around herself and pulled the shirt’s collar over her nose, thankful even after all the months he had been away and all the washes she’d put it through, it still smelled of him. The fabric gathered in her fingers. The cold wrapped around her legs and made them shiver. She wondered how Rollant was going to sleep with damp clothes. The fire flickered low, casting light but offering little warmth. She hadn’t cut enough firewood. Even though she shivered, she opened the door, and the blast of cold air weakened her knees.

“Are you well?” Rollant said, lifting his head. His coat draped over him as he curled up in the fetal position on the small sofa.

“I am thinking you are going to freeze out here. I would sleep better knowing you at least had a blanket.” Her lip quivered from the cold. He got up and draped his coat around her shoulders. It chased away the chill, but the iron stench of blood clung to the fabric, pungent and metallic. Her knees stopped shaking, but his shoulders twitched seemingly from an icy tendril. His shirt hung open since she’d ripped the buttons.

“You will be freezing all night if I take the blanket,” he said. “I will be fine with my coat.”

“You will not sleep well curled up like that with a coat.” She glanced at the sofa.

“It’s almost dry,” he said. “As are my clothes.”

“You’ll still freeze out here,” she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her gifted shirt. “And I—I’ll sleep better knowing you’re warm too.” She hesitated, the words catching in her throat before she forced them out. “Could we—could we share the bed? Just to stay warm?” Her cheeks flushed, and she couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes. “That way, we’ll both have good sleep.”

“If that is what you wish,” he said softly, his voice heavy with restraint. “But I will not hold you, Élise. I will not touch you. For your sake—and mine.” His fingers brushed her chin, lifting her gaze to meet his. For a moment, his eyes lingered on her lips, and she felt the weight of all the words left unspoken. “Please, Élise,” he whispered. “Do not tempt me further, for I have already failed once before.”

“We all fail,” she said to comfort him. Though it pained her that he would not kiss her, she whispered, “But I promise it.”

They returned to the bedroom. She took one side of the small bed, and he took the other, pulling the blankets up. His weight caused her to slide into his back. He didn’t move, and she didn’t want him to. His warmth put an instant spell on her. She ran her hands down his long shirt and pulled it over her bare legs.

“Rollant?” she whispered, curious.

He hummed, already half asleep.

“If you are unwounded, then why did you groan? Why did you moan in pain?”

He shifted a little on the bed and scratched his neck. “I don’t remember, Élise. Everything happened so quickly. I’ll speak of it tomorrow.”

It was impossible. No man could bleed without a gash, cry out in pain, yet bear no wound. The memory haunted her as she lay in the dark, her mind repeating the night’s events again and again. She knew what she had seen—what she had felt. It didn’t make sense. And as Rollant slept beside her, steady as a stone, Élise stared into the dark, her mind racing. She wasn’t mad—she couldn’t be. She had seen the blood. Felt it. Heard his pain. Yet there he was, whole, untouched, breathing softly beside her. The impossible truth settled over her like a shroud: either she was indeed mad, or there was more to Rollant than she could ever comprehend.

* * *

Dawn’spale light seeped through the shutters, cold and gray. She stretched her arm across the bed, her hand meeting only emptiness where warmth should have been.

Her heart seized.

She bolted upright, the sheets tangling around her legs.

“Rollant?” she whispered, her voice catching in her throat. Had she imagined it all? Had it been his ghost that had tended to her, whispered to her in the dark?

Her trembling hands rose to her line sight. Faint specks of dried blood stuck to her skin. His blood—or what she thought was his. A cold dread knotted her stomach. She flung herself out of bed, stumbling as the sheets dragged her down, and slammed into the dresser. Ignoring the sting, she scrambled to the door and threw it open, her breath lodged in her chest.

He was there. Standing by the hearth, tending to a pan of eggs. The amber glow outlined his form, casting his long shadow across the floor. His shirt hung loose, and his dark hair curled from the lingering moisture of his wash. He turned, his steady gaze finding hers with quiet concern.

“Are you well?” he asked, his voice low and warm, like the fire crackle.

An audible gasp and sigh followed as her knees went weak with relief.

“Yes,” she managed.

She pressed her hand to the doorframe, and her body sagged as the weight of her panic lifted. He was alive. Not a ghost. Not a phantom conjured by her grief-stricken mind. Rollant was there, standing before her.

She closed the door and slid down, curling her knees to her chest and leaning her head back against the wood. Relief swelled in her chest, but it was tangled with confusion.

A knock at her door came. “Are you certain?” Rollant asked.

“Yes,” she said again, crawling to her drawer. Questions raced through her mind: How could he be here, standing upright and whole, after what she’d seen? The blood, the groans of pain, the dagger pulled from his own belly—it burned in her memory like the glow of the fire in the hearth. But the more she thought, the more her memories blurred, tangled by the impossible. Shaking her head, she pulled out her dress and prepared for the day.

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