Chapter 152 Before the Day Ends
Damien
The cart creaks the entire way down the mountain as the mule trudges through the track. My dragon shifts under my ribs until the wind softens, and the kingdom comes into view. I have this primal instinct to get her inside, warm and fed, where the day can’t reach for her again and she's all mine. At the gates, two guards take the cart and guide it to the side yard, where men meet them to unload under cover. I do not follow. The gifts can be counted later. Bella's needs cannot wait. The smell of dinner hits before the doors even close behind us.
Bella breathes in. “Thank the gods.”
“Boots,” I tell her.
She shoots me a look, then allows me to take them from her feet anyway. I steer her toward the kitchen, and she tries to slip toward the corridor the moment she thinks I’ve relaxed.
“I’m not that hungry,” she says.
“You missed lunch,” I answer, hand settling at her waist to stop her. “You only had honey cake.”
Her eyes narrow. “Honey cake is a meal.”
“It’s a crime.”
She huffs, but she lets me turn her back. A bowl of stew waits on the table, bread beside it, warm enough to make the room smell of comfort. Bella stares at it for a moment, then picks up the spoon and eats. My dragon finally settles. I stay near the fire while she finishes, watching her shoulders drop as the last of the village noise drains out of her posture. When she looks up, the spoon pauses, and she points it at me.
“You’re staring.”
“I’m monitoring.”
“You’re hovering.”
“I’m ensuring you don’t attempt to replace dinner with cake again.”
“I can survive on cake,” she says.
“You can,” I agree. “But you will not.”
Bella rolls her eyes, finishes the bowl anyway, then leans back with a quiet exhale.
“That helped,” she admits.
I nod once.
“And now,” she says, already shifting, “I want to go write.”
Bella watches my face like she’s bracing for a fight.
“I said I wanted to,” she reminds me. “End of the day. My office. Quiet.”
“I heard you,” I say, stepping closer. I brush my thumb once along her jaw, grounding us both. “One hour. Then you come to bed.”
Her brows lift. “A curfew?”
“A boundary.”
Her mouth curves. “Fine. One hour, but if I get inspired, that’s going out the window.”
“And I will be curled at your feet,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
Bella slips away down the hall with purpose, already halfway into that other part of herself. Then I turn to the rest of the night. I pull Red’s list from my coat and smooth it on the table—one moon.
A month looks generous when written down. It feels smaller when I imagine everything that has to happen without turning her life into something that happens to her. I add notes in the margins, writing down timing, order, who touches what, and when I must speak and when others can handle it without me. I make sure there are pauses built in, spaces where Bella isn’t needed, moments where the mountain can continue along without asking anything from her. My thoughts drift, inevitably, to the secret place, and my jaw tightens. That space has to be protected. It cannot become another thing people touch before she’s ready to stand there. I call for Marius. He arrives a few minutes later, cloak still on, ink on his fingers, expression composed in the way it always is when he’s already prepared to work.
“My king.”
“Marius. Sit.”
He does, and I slide the paper toward him. He reads without comment. When his gaze catches on the third venue note, he adds a single line in neat strokes.
THIRD VENUE: KING’S CHOICE.
He doesn’t ask where; he understands boundaries. We speak briefly but practically about what needs to be acquired. What needs to be built and what must stay quiet. When we finish, he stands, then hesitates at the door.
“She seems happy,” he says.
“She is,” I answer.
He smiles, nods once and disappears into the corridor. I fold the papers, tuck them away, and move down the hall toward Bella’s office. The door is mostly closed, and light leaks at the edges. I can hear the steady tap of the typewriter, the sound of her building something that belongs entirely to her. I rest my hand against the wood and listen. I don’t knock. I don’t open the door. I stand there, palm flat against the wood, letting the sound of her work anchor me. The keys strike in steady bursts, then pause and then start again. There’s a rhythm to it that I'm learning means she’s found something and is chasing it before it escapes. The dragon settles fully, heavy and content, in my chest. This is what I wanted, her feeling safe enough to disappear into something she loves for a while. I step back before the hour is up. I don’t want to be the thing that breaks her focus. Tomorrow, I’ll ask what she wrote, or I won’t. Some things are better left untouched until she offers them.
I pause once more at the junction of the corridor, glancing back toward her door. There will be a month of noise and decisions, people pulling at her time and attention, even when they mean well. I will hold the line where she can’t. I will be the one who says no. I will be the space she doesn’t have to defend. When the hour passes, I will bring her back to bed. I will feel the day finally leave her body. I will sleep with her breath warm against my chest and the knowledge that tomorrow, we do it again, one careful step at a time. One moon. I turn toward the stairs, already planning the morning, already counting the days, already sure of this. When the moon turns, I will meet her in the quiet place I chose, and I will give her my name, my fire, and every year that comes after.
And the world can wait until then.