Chapter 128 I Should Write a Book
Bella
I hook my hand around Damien’s arm and let my head fall back dramatically.
“Ugh,” I announce to the hallway at large. “Yes. Take me to our bed, my king. I have conquered mountains, dismantled tyranny, survived a cursed boat ride through a fairy-tale tunnel of nightmares, and I am officially done being upright.”
He doesn’t even laugh at first. He just glances down at me, mouth twitching, eyes warm and tired in the same way my bones feel. He shifts his arm slightly so I’m supported without being carried, which is somehow worse for my dignity and better for my heart.
“As you command,” he says solemnly, and then, quieter, “But you’re checking on everyone first. I'm still working on my social skills.”
“Obviously,” I mutter, already turning us back toward the hall.
We move slowly through the space, and this time the quiet feels earned. Fires burn low and steady. The cots are filled. Children breathe deep and even beneath blankets that smell like clean linen and faint smoke. Elders have been guided upstairs, with only a few stubborn ones refusing to take a bed and choosing to give them to others. Light spills softly into the stairwells. Servants move through with practised ease, placing water within reach, murmuring reassurances, adjusting a pillow here and there. I pause more than once, kneeling beside someone to ask if they need anything, and every answer is the same. No. They’re warm. They’re fed. They’re safe. They are free and ready for whatever life has planned for them next. Which, for right now, is rest. That settles something deep in my chest. Only then do I let Damien steer me away, down familiar corridors that feel different tonight. It's quieter, less formal, it's... worn out, like a person after a long day of work. We reach our room, and he wastes no time opening the door, ushering me inside and closing it after him. He takes my coat from my shoulders as soon as the lock clicks, fingers brushing my neck briefly, carefully and unhurriedly. He hangs it where it now belongs before I even think to ask. I sit on the edge of the bed with a long sigh and kick one boot halfway off before giving up entirely.
“I can’t feel my feet,” I inform him.
He crouches in front of me without comment, unlaces the boots, and slides them off one at a time, setting them neatly aside. His hands are warm and steady as always. He doesn’t rush. He handles me with the kind of care that assumes permanence. The kind that doesn’t need to prove anything.
“You say that every time,” he says mildly.
“And every time it’s true.”
He smiles, presses a kiss to my knee through the fabric of my trousers, and stands. I watch him cross the room and start the shower, steam beginning to curl almost immediately, and for a moment I just sit there, taking in the quiet, the warmth, the fact that we’re here at all. When he returns, he helps me up and across the room. He softly pulls off every layer of clothing from me and does the same to himself. Throwing the clothes in the direction of the bin, rather than the wash basket. His fingers brush my spine as we step into the heat together. The water hits my shoulders, and I groan, tension sliding loose from muscles I didn’t realise I’d been holding tight. Damien’s hands move carefully, washing my hair, my arms, my back, not missing anything, not asking for anything either, just present in the way that feels like trust.
“I should write a book,” I mumble into the steam, eyes closed. “About us and everything we’ve done. Everything we’ve survived. It would be unhinged.”
He hums thoughtfully. “I would read it.”
I crack one eye open. “You’re just saying that because you have to.”
“No. I'm saying it because I would.” He rinses the soap from my hair, fingers gentle. “I’ll have someone bring you a typewriter and set you up in an office. Somewhere with good light.”
I blink at him, water dripping down my lashes. “I’d want plants.”
“Of course.”
“And candles. Too many candles.”
“Within reason.”
“And a chair that doesn’t look like it was designed by someone who hates spines.”
He smiles. “Anything you want.”
I laugh softly, leaning my forehead against his chest, the heat and the steady beat of his heart grounding me completely.
“Anything?” I ask.
He tilts his head down, presses a kiss to my hairline, lingering.
“Anything,” he says. “As long as I get you.”
The words settle into me slowly, like warmth soaking into cold fingers, and for a moment I don’t have anything clever to say. So I just nod and stay there, letting the water run over us until the day finally loosens its grip. We dry off together, unhurried, and when we curl into bed at last, the sheets are cool, clean, and welcoming. Damien pulls me close, arm heavy and sure around my waist, his breath warm against my temple. He presses another kiss to my forehead, then another, softer still.
“Sleep,” he murmurs.
I do. Not just because my body has finally run out of ways to stay upright, but because the part of me that’s always listening for danger has gone quiet. Because I’m safe in a way that doesn’t feel temporary or conditional. Because this place, these people, this life, doesn’t ask me to be smaller or sharper or braver than I already am. I’ve crossed mountains and dark woods that didn’t want me passing through them. I’ve ridden an enchanted boat through water that forgot how to be normal. I froze an immortal tyrant, cracked open a prison disguised as mercy, and watched an entire people choose their own lives. That feels like a lot for one girl who once lived alone in a tower and thought survival was the best she could hope for. Wrapped in warmth and steady breath and the quiet certainty of tomorrow, I let myself rest. Maybe I should write a book. Maybe I will.