Chapter 139 Ink On Paper
Bella
It turns out that when you finally get everything you thought you were fighting for, no one tells you what to do with your hands. They hover in front of me like confused little birds, fingers flexing, ready to grab a sword, a railing, a throat, a blanket, a future… and finding nothing to clutch. Behind me, Damien’s arms circle my waist, warm and sure, his breath brushing my hairline like he’s anchoring me to the floorboards on purpose. The office still smells new, like fresh wood and ink and someone else’s effort. Candle wax waits in neat little clusters. Plants crowd the windowsill, their glossy leaves smug about surviving indoors. The typewriter sits at the centre of the desk, ribbon dark, paper stacked, keys gleaming faintly like they’re about to judge me. Damien shifts past my shoulder and reaches for the chair. He pulls it out, turns it slightly so it faces the window, and gestures like he’s presenting a throne.
“Sit,” he says gently. “I’m going to make dinner.”
I blink. “You don’t have to.”
“I want to.” He leans in, presses a soft kiss to the corner of my mouth, then another to my temple. “You’ve had a long day. You finally have space. I want you to take it.”
My hands fidget again, betraying me.
His mouth twitches in amusement. “Go on,” he murmurs. “See what magic comes out of your pretty little head.”
“Oh my gods,” I whisper, horrified. “You’re leaving me alone with a typewriter like it’s a weapon.”
“You are a weapon,” he says, eyes warm. “I’m more afraid of the typewriter.”
“Rude.”
He laughs under his breath, then he turns and heads for the door.
“And Snowflake?” he adds, pausing with his fingers on the latch.
“Yes?”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “No freezing the plants.”
I tilt my head, innocent as sin. “No promises.”
He makes a soft sound that lands somewhere between a chuckle and a sigh, then slips out, the door clicking shut behind him with quiet finality.
The room exhales... Or maybe that’s me. I stand there for a moment longer than I need to, taking it in. The deep blue rug at my feet holds warmth like it was stitched from a summer day. The bookshelves line one wall, empty but expectant, waiting for me to decide what kind of person I am now. The desk surface feels smooth under my fingertips, worn in a way that tells me someone actually bothered to make it worthwhile, not just impressive. Outside the window, the night sits thick and clear over the kingdom. Stars scatter above the rooftops like spilled salt. I can still feel the flight in my bones, the way Damien’s dragon held me against his chest. I press my palm to the glass and let the quiet sink into my skin. No one is chasing me or counting my mistakes, or waiting to punish me for taking up space. I turn away from the window and finally let myself do the most ridiculous thing imaginable. I light the candles. One by one, small flames catch and steady, and the room shifts immediately, shadows softening, warmth pooling on shelves and corners and leaves. The glass reflects the flicker at me, a hundred tiny lives dancing in place. It feels like a special kind of magic.
“All right,” I mutter to myself, and then I cross to the desk and sit.
The chair fits me so perfectly that it feels like it knows my moods. I roll a sheet of paper into the typewriter. The mechanism clicks and catches with a satisfying little series of sounds. My hands hover again, hesitating above the keys—useless birds. I flex my fingers once, breathe in the candle-sweet air, and then I type. Once upon a time, there was a girl who lived in a tower… The keys strike loud in the quiet, each letter landing with a sharp clack that echoes faintly off the walls. The sentence sits there on the page, black and real and completely mine. I stare at it for a second, and then I type again, the words sliding out of me. She knew the sound of wind better than the sound of voices. She knew stone, and snow, and silence. She learned how to survive without being seen. The carriage returns with a soft ping, and I flick the lever, satisfied. I write a little more. The girl watches the world through a narrow window. She counts seasons by the way frost gathers at the edges of glass. She names the stars because no one else will answer her. As the story moves, something stirs beneath my skin. Frost feathers along the windowpane delicately, tracing thin fern patterns that match the cadence of my thoughts. I pause mid-sentence, watching it creep, the cold so perfect it looks like art.
“Hey,” I whisper, half amused. “We’re indoors.”
The frost holds for a moment, then melts back under the candlelight, leaving the glass clear again.
Time slips away from me, and the candle flames shorten. Ink grows on the page, my shoulders loosen, and the typewriter becomes a kind of heartbeat. The story grows effortlessly. I’m halfway through a sentence about firelight on snow when I hear footsteps in the hall. The door opens a moment later, and Damien steps in with his sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messier than it was and the faintest smear of flour on his knuckles. He pauses when he sees me at the desk, candlelight painting soft gold across his cheekbones. For a second, he watches me, then his gaze drops to the page. He leans in, slow and sly, trying to peek, but I slap my hand over the paper so fast the typewriter rattles.
“Absolutely not.”
His brows lift, innocently. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
His mouth curves. “Is it bad?”
“It’s not finished,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “It’s barely even started.”
He huffs a soft laugh and straightens, surrendering with exaggerated patience. “I saw one sentence.”
“Excuse you,” I say. “There are multiple sentences, and they’re very vulnerable.”
“I’ll respect their privacy,” he replies solemnly, and then he reaches down and takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “Dinner’s ready.”
I glance at the page once more, at the tiny beginning sitting there. Then I look up at him, at the warmth in his eyes, the gentle insistence in his grip.
“Fine,” I sigh, dramatic and entirely fake. “I’ll allow dinner to interrupt my literary genius.”
His thumb brushes over my knuckles softly.
“You can come back to it,” he says.
I squeeze his hand back. “I know.”
He leads me from the room, candlelight flickering behind us as the door swings closed, leaving the story waiting on the desk. That's okay, I have a whole lifetime to finish it.