Chapter 87 CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN | CANDLES AND CONSEQUENCES

Chapter 87 CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN | CANDLES AND CONSEQUENCES
CHAPTER EIGHTY-SEVEN | CANDLES AND CONSEQUENCES

TARCUIS

The candles were already burning when I returned, thin flames stretching like they were listening. The room smelled of oil and warm stone. Quiet, except for the soft sound of breathing that wasn’t mine.

She stood near the window, back to me, hands folded at her front like she was trying to keep them still. The maid. That’s what everyone called her. As if that was all she was. As if names didn’t matter.

“You’re late,” she said without turning.

I smiled. “You noticed.”

“I always notice,” she replied. Her voice didn’t shake, but I heard the effort behind it.

I closed the door slowly. Not because I was afraid of noise, but because the moment deserved patience. Everything did. I leaned against the wall instead of walking to her. Let the distance breathe.

“You should be resting,” I said. “It’s been a long day.”

“So has yours,” she answered. “And you never rest.”

She turned then. Candlelight caught her face, softening the sharpness, warming her skin. Her eyes met mine and held. Brave. Or foolish. I hadn’t decided which.

“Come here,” I said, not loud, not soft. Just enough.

She didn’t move.

I raised a brow. “That wasn’t a command.”

“I know,” she said. “That’s why I’m still standing.”

Something stirred in my chest. Respect. Interest. A warning bell I ignored.

I crossed the room this time, slow steps, counting them without meaning to. She watched me like she was measuring something she hadn’t named yet. When I stopped in front of her, close enough to feel her warmth, she finally looked down.

“You’re trembling,” I said.

“No,” she replied quickly.

I reached out, not touching, just hovering near her wrist. “You are.”

Her breath caught. “Then don’t look so closely.”

I tilted my head. “I look closely at everything.”

Her lips pressed together. “That’s what makes you dangerous.”

I smiled again. “That’s what makes me honest.”

I lifted her chin with one finger. Just enough. Her skin was warm. Alive. She didn’t pull away. Didn’t lean in either. That space between us thickened, heavy with all the things we weren’t saying.

“Why are you here?” I asked quietly.

She swallowed. “You asked me to be.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Her eyes searched mine, then steadied. “Because you don’t pretend I’m invisible.”

I let my finger drop. “Visibility comes with risk.”

“I know,” she said. “I live in it.”

I stepped past her, letting my shoulder brush hers just once. The smallest contact. She inhaled sharply, like it surprised her. I went to the table and poured wine into two cups, slowly, carefully.

“When you came into my service,” I said, handing her one, “you watched more than you spoke.”

“I still do,” she replied.

“You think listening keeps you safe.”

She met my gaze over the rim of the cup. “Doesn’t it?”

“For a while,” I said. “Then people start wondering what you know.”

She took a sip, eyes never leaving mine. “And do you wonder?”

“All the time.”

I moved closer again, close enough now that her back touched the table. I set my cup aside without looking. She followed my movement with her eyes, pulse jumping in her throat.

“You could leave,” I said. “Right now.”

Her fingers tightened around the cup. “You could stop standing so close.”

I leaned in, my mouth near her ear, not touching. “But neither of us wants that.”

She exhaled. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know you’re still here.”

Her eyes closed for a second. When they opened, something had changed. Less fear. More decisions.

“You always do this,” she said softly. “You circle. You wait.”

“Because rushing ruins things,” I replied. “And I don’t ruin what I intend to keep.”

Her breath stuttered. “Keep?”

I straightened slightly, enough to see her face clearly. “Careful,” I said. “That word scares people.”

“It should,” she whispered. “Especially from you.”

I reached up then, slowly, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. My fingers slid into her hair, gentle, grounding. Not claiming. Just a present.

“You should tell me to stop,” I murmured.

“If I do,” she said, voice low, “will you?”

“Yes.”

She laughed quietly, almost sadly. “That’s unfair.”

I leaned my forehead against hers. “So is wanting something you know could break you.”

Her hand lifted, hovered, then rested against my chest. I felt it through the fabric. The pause before it pressed there told me everything.

“I’m not asking for promises,” she said.

“Good,” I replied. “I don’t give empty ones.”

The candles flickered. Outside, something moved, distant and unimportant. Inside, the world narrowed to breath and warmth and the quiet understanding that this was dangerous, and neither of us was walking away.

Not tonight.

I kissed her then. Slow. Deliberate. Not deep. Just enough to make the future feel close and the present feel sharp.

When I pulled back, her eyes were dark, steady.

“This doesn’t change who you are,” she said.

“No,” I agreed. “It reveals it.”

And that, more than anything, was what made her stay.

The sound came sharp and ugly, cutting straight through the quiet we had built.

My phone vibrated on the table.

Twice.

She stiffened immediately. Her hand fell from my chest like it had been burned. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. Only one person ignored time, mood, and consequence the way this caller did.

I stepped back and picked it up.

“What?” I said flatly.

Darius’ voice spilled through, thick with satisfaction. “We have her.”

The room seemed to tilt.

“Careful,” I replied. “You’re speaking too easily.”

He laughed. “Aspen. She’s alive. For now. Your pretty problem is finally where she belongs.”

I closed my eyes for half a second. When I opened them, the maid was watching me closely, reading every crack in my expression.

“Where?” I asked.

“That depends,” Darius said. “On how much you still want her breathing.”

My jaw tightened. “You touched her?”

“No,” he answered. “Not yet. I’m not foolish. She’s valuable.”

The word tasted wrong.

I ended the call without another word.

Silence rushed back in, heavier than before. The candles flickered again, like they sensed the shift.

“She’s important to you,” the maid said quietly.

“Yes,” I replied.

She nodded once. “Then this night is over.”

I didn’t stop her when she stepped away. Some moments don’t end gently. They simply make room for war.