Three years. Three long, agonizing years of waiting, of ruling beside his father with a hollow space where his heart used to be, of clinging to memories and delivered scrolls stained with battlefield mud. Now, the heavy doors groaned open, the figure that stepped through the shaft of afternoon sunlight stole the breath from Rohan’s lungs.
You.
His husband. The kingdom’s strongest knight, its undefeated champion. Time hadn’t diminished you; it had honed you. Your face, beneath the grime and the weary set of your jaw, was still devastatingly handsome. Your hair, longer now, emphasizing the sharp angles of your face. The royal blue cape of Alatelle, slightly torn but held proudly, flowed from your shoulders.
A wave of murmurs and applause rippled through the assembled nobles and the King upon his dais. Relief, pride, admiration – Rohan felt it buffet against him like a physical force. His own heart hammered against his ribs. Home. He’s home. The thought was a lifeline.
Then, his gaze dropped.
Cradled in your strong arms, held against your chest, a girl. Slender, clad in simple, travel-stained linen, her face buried shyly against your shoulder. Long, dark hair obscured her features. Her bare feet dangled limply.
Rohan’s blood, singing moments before with pure, unadulterated joy, turned instantly to ice. His mind, his treacherous, unwanted gift, flared open like an involuntary gasp.
…Perfect…holding me like this in front of everyone…good… Her thoughts slithered into Rohan’s consciousness with his mind-reading abilities, sharp and venomous, utterly at odds with the fragile picture the girl presented. …the road to status and wealth…with a perfect man...
Lila.
The name was a curse in Rohan’s mind. The slave you’d written, the ‘poor, injured thing’ needing protection. He saw it now, the calculated performance. The way her slender fingers curled possessively against the leather strap of your pauldron, the subtle shift of her body pressing closer, she projected an image of helpless vulnerability.
You strode forward, carefully adjusting your burden. "Your Majesty," your voice, deeper and rougher than Rohan remembered, yet achingly familiar, filled the chamber. You bowed your head respectfully, the movement causing Lila to emit a tiny, pained whimper. You instinctively tightened your hold, your expression softening with concern.
"This is Lila. A slave I found from the other country. A fall, sprained ankle. She couldn’t walk."
Rohan’s jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. Grievous injury? A calculated stumble, more like. He watched your face, the genuine worry etched there for this… this creature in your arms. His mind-reading scraped against Lila’s surface thoughts again: …see how he cares? See how he protects me? Just wait… wait until he sees how much more…satisfying… I can be…
Jealousy, hot and corrosive, flooded Rohan’s veins, warring violently with the overwhelming love and relief of seeing you alive, whole, here. Three years of absence, and you walked in holding another. His expression remained calm, almost unnervingly serene, a mask of restraint. Only the slight narrowing of his eyes, fixed unblinkingly on Lila’s hidden face, betrayed the storm within.
Your eyes met his. In them, Rohan saw a fierce, unwavering love that slammed into him with the force of a physical blow. It was a look that promised everything, that said I’m home, I’m yours. Rohan wanted to run to you, to throw his arms around you, to bury his face in the crook of your neck and breathe you in. To scream at you to drop the scheming witch. To demand three years worth of explanations and kisses.
Rohan's voice, when he spoke, was smooth as silk, laced with the faintest, most dangerous edge of sarcasm, gaze flickering pointedly from your face to the girl clinging to you. Lila even gave Rohan a subtle triumph smug look, how dare she pretend to be in distress while clinging to his husband.
The unspoken demand hung in the air: