She made her way through the garden, the hidden hole in the wall and weaseled her way through the harsh environment before finally cracking open the heavy door. It was incredibly dark, she fumbled for a lantern, fumbling until her fingers closed around the cool metal. A match, a spark, and then light dim and flickering, but enough to reveal the small den. A wooden stool, a narrow cot covered in furs, a small table with a basin and towel. Clara's sanctuary. The air was close, redolent of dried herbs and old woodsmoke. She set the lantern down and sank onto the stool, drawing her knees up to her chest. The distant sounds of the banquet were muffled here, and the flickering glow of the lantern cast monstrous shadows along the rough stone walls.
She exhaled slowly, closing her eyes. "Finally, quiet." She breathed in the damp earth and woodsmoke, the musty air a welcome change from the cloying perfume and heated bodies of the banquet hall.
The lantern's glow danced across the rough stone walls, casting strange shapes that flickered like ghostly sentinels. Her fingers traced idle patterns on her knees as she leaned forward, letting the silence envelop her.
The cot creaked slightly as she shifted, pulling one of the thick furs around her shoulders. It was worn, soft from years of use, carrying the faint scent of Clara's rosemary soap. She allowed herself a moment of peace, the chaos of the evening settling into a distant murmur in her mind. She glanced at the stack of Elara's diaries old accounts of Greyhaven manor she began to wonder if there any accounts of Elodie or even a young Duke. It would be prying though she shouldn't do it. But the thought nagged at her like a persistent itch. Clara rarely spoke of the Duke's past, and Giselle had been too careful to ask.
Lady Isolde's words echoed in her mind—"She had fire"—the way Victor had looked incredibly broken at the thought of his first wife any time she was mentioned.
Giselle stood, her movement stirring dust motes in the lantern light. She crossed to the small bookshelf Clara had tucked into a corner, her fingers brushing over the leather-bound ledgers. At the back, hidden slightly by a larger book, was an old, thick tome bound in faded red leather. The binding was stitched with golden thread, now dulled with age.
"Just a few pages won't hurt." Giselle carefully lifted the book from the shelf, holding it with both hands as she carried it back to the stool. The cover was warm to the touch, the leather smooth under her fingertips. As she opened it, the pages released the faint musty aroma of age and old parchment. The handwriting was meticulous, elegant, but with a certain sharpness to the strokes—small and precise, the ink dark and well-preserved. She began to read.
"My dearest Elodie, my heart," The words hit like a blow. She inhaled sharply and continued.
"The first winter here has been the longest of my life." Victor's handwriting was unmistakable, the same deliberate slant as the ledgers she had seen. But this this was different. Tender. Vulnerable. A pang twisted in her chest, sharp and unwelcome. He had never written to her like this. She turned the page.
"The wind howls like a living thing, tearing at the keep's stones as if trying to pull it apart. I fear the walls will crumble and bury us all before spring arrives. But even the storm's fury cannot match the emptiness when you are gone. I have no words for how your absence gnaws at me, no prayer that will fill the void your laughter left behind." Giselle felt her heart quicken but she couldn't tear her eyes from the script . She turned another page, finding sketches of a young man Victor's face, perhaps, or someone very like him. The lines were rough, hurried, as if drawn in the grip of strong emotion. Underneath the sketches, more words.
"Today I watched you practice with the blade, your skirts swirling around your ankles as you moved. You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, fierce and alive and completely untamed. When you smiled at me afterward, I thought my heart might burst from my chest."
Giselle's eyes widened, "She knew how to fight?"
"Elodie would have been magnificent," she murmured to the empty room. The realization unsettled her.
Giselle had never touched a sword in her life, her skills confined to ink and numbers. She read on, the words flowing in Victor's handdescriptions of stolen moments in the garden, arguments in the great hall, whispered promises under the covers of his bed. She felt strangely intrusive, like she was witnessing something sacred that didn't belong to her. She sighed gently closing the book. She leaned back on the cot gazing at the shadows dancing on the walls a part of her felt nothing another part felt envy.
It wasn't because Victor was some ultimate prize she desired winning, if he had loved one woman that deeply then..... she couldn't help but wonder if he'd ever feel that way about anything ever again. Her fingers ran over the cover of the diary again, the leather worn smooth. The words still burned in her mind the rawness, the devotion. She rose from the side realizing she should probably return if she was gone to long there would be questions. Giselle carefully replaced the diary where she found it, her movements precise and measured. She took one last look at the cramped space, the worn furs, the flickering lantern light Clara's sanctuary. She extinguished the flame with a steady hand, plunging the room back into darkness save for the faint glow of the distant torches in the corridor outside. The door creaked slightly as she pulled it shut behind her, the familiar weight of the old wood pressing against her palm.
Her gown rustled as she moved, the fabric whispering against itself. As she neared the great hall, the sounds of revelry grew louder the scrape of chairs, the thrum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter. She paused just outside the doors, inhaling deeply before stepping back into the glow of torchlight and the press of bodies. The atmosphere had shifted since she'd left; the guests were looser now, the wine flowing freely. The Duke was still at the high table, seated beside Elena Loris, who leaned near, her hand resting lightly on his arm. Giselle's stomach twisted, though she couldn't name why. Jealousy? Concern? Both?
She rolled her eyes but he saw her, abruptly he stood making his way towards her he looked displeased she couldn't say if it was with her or something else. He stopped close enough to touch, speaking quietly.
"You left rather abruptly," he said, his words carrying an edge. "The hall felt your absence." His grey eyes searched her face, scanning for something unspoken.
"I needed air," she replied, lifting her chin slightly. The heat of the great hall felt suffocating after the cool night air.
He stepped nearer, lowering his voice. "Elena Loris is pressing me about the alliance. She expects our marriage to be more... consummated... than it appears to be." A muscle in his jaw twitched. "People are beginning to whisper."
He glanced down at her muddied dress brows furrowing, "Where have you been?" His scrutiny made her skin prickle with awareness.
She met his gaze evenly, though her pulse quickened. "I took a walk in the garden."
"In that dress?" He gestured to the mud staining her skirts, an incredulous note in his words.
"I didn't realize I required permission to step outside my own home." The sharpness in her tone surprised even her.
Victor's expression hardened, though something flickered across his face irritation, and a quip of concern, "You shouldn't be wandering about at night alone."
"And why is that?" She held her ground, though his presence loomed large before her. His gaze dropped to her lips, held there a beat too long. when he looked back up, the air between them seemed charged. "Because I care what happens to you," he said, quieter now. "And because Greyhaven is no place for a woman to walk alone in the dark."
The admission disarmed her. She swallowed, searching for something to say, but words failed her. Across the hall, she could sense Elena Loris's gaze boring into them. The night's earlier tension settled again between her shoulders.
He glanced toward the high table, where Lord Darion now sat speaking with Lady Isolde. "We should return," he said, but made no move. "Before your absence becomes gossip."
She glared at him, "Should I have to bear their company the entire night?" Victor's expression remained unreadable, but his eyes darkened. "Yes," he said, the word clipped. "That is the duty of a consort. To be seen. To smile. To endure."
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a murmur meant only for her ears. "You think I enjoy watching them dissect every gesture between us? That I relish the speculation? They are vultures, Giselle. And they will feast on any sign of weakness."
She could smell the faint scent of wine on his breath, the warm spice of his cologne. She reached out touching his elbow, "Do you understand what I have to endure?" she squeezed tightly.
Victor's eyes narrow at her touch, his jaw tightening beneath the pressure of her fingers on his elbow. The great hall's distant noise laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional burst of music feels suddenly far away, as if the two of them stand in a bubble of charged silence.
"Do you think I don't?" His words emerge rougher than intended, revealing an edge he typically keeps carefully sheathed. "Every day, Giselle. Every moment in this hall, every whispered conversation, every measuring look." His gaze drifts briefly to Elena Loris, who sits with a group of courtiers, her eyes glinting with cold amusement as she watches them.
He sighed before shifting positions, his hand dropped down to her waist guiding her to the center of the hall, "What are you-"
"We shall dance, my wife." His hand at her waist feels possessive, his other hand taking hers with deliberate slowness as he leads her to the center of the hall.
The musicians pause, then smoothly transition to a waltz. He turns her effortlessly, his grip firm but not painful. Around them, conversation dies away as courtiers turn to watch. The pressure of his hand on her back presses her closer than necessary, his other hand holding hers with just enough pressure to make her aware of every finger.
"You're stiffer than the armor in the armory," he murmurs, his breath warm against her ear. "Relax."
She stiffens further, feeling exposed under the watchful eyes of the hall. "H-How do you expect I do that?" She hissed behind a tight lipped smile.
Victor's lips brush against her ear as he chuckles, low and knowing. "You expect me to let you flounder, my wife?" His hand at her back presses slightly, guiding her movements with a steady rhythm. "Breathe, Giselle. Let me lead."
His grip remains firm, yet there's an undeniable intimacy in the way he holds her, his body angled just enough to create a subtle, private cocoon amidst the watching courtiers. He spins her again, the movement fluid, his control absolute. "See? You're doing well," he murmurs, his gaze flicking to hers, searching. "Just as you did the first time we made love."
Her eyes widened a crimson flush tickled her cheeks she shyly darted her eyes away, "M-Must you bring that up now?"
His thumb stroked a slow, deliberate arc against the small of her back, a touch that felt both possessive and strangely soothing. "Why not?" he countered, his voice dropping to a low, private register that vibrated through her. "It is a memory I find myself returning to with some... frequency."
The waltz carried them past the high table where Lord Darion watched with a speculative gleam in his eye, and Lady Isolde's lips were pressed into a thin, disapproving line. Victor guided her smoothly away, his steps never faltering. The music swirled around them, a lilting melody that seemed to mock the tension coiled within her.
Her dark eyes shot up to his for a moment she let herself get lost in his eyes, "You do....why?" The question came out before she could stop herself.
Victor's eyes flicker with something dangerous and unreadable as the music swirls around them. His grip on her waist tightens just enough to be noticeable, his thumb tracing those same slow circles against the small of her back. The question hangs between them like a challenge, his storm-grey eyes boring into hers as if searching for something hidden beneath the surface.
"Why indeed," he murmurs, his voice rough with an intensity that makes her breath catch. "Perhaps because it was the only time I've seen you truly unguarded. The only time you've let me in." His lips curl into something that isn't quite a smile. "You were magnificent then. Fierce. Unafraid to want."
Her eyes drifted to his lips, "I-I-" The words die in her throat as the waltz carries them past a group of noblewomen whose whispers follow like a cold current. Victor's grip shifts minutely, his fingers pressing against the delicate bones of her back as if sensing her wavering composure.
"You were saying?" he prompts, his words quiet and deliberate, the barest edge of amusement threading through them. The music swells around them, a crescendo that feels like a physical force pressing against her ribs.
Giselle's pulse thrums in her throat, her mind racing through the tangled threads of what she should say, what she wants to say, what would be safe.
She caught a glance of Elena's infuriating smirk how she wished she could smack that look of her face, "Kiss me." She whispered.
The words hung in the air between them, fragile and dangerous. Victor's gaze dropped to her lips, and for a heartbeat, the music faded into the background, the murmuring courtiers became a blur. His thumb ceased its slow tracing against the small of her back; his hand went still, as if he were holding the moment in place.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. The hall swirled around them silks and velvet, the flash of torches, the faint tang of wine and sweat. Every nerve in her body thrummed with awareness. She had spoken without thinking, impulsive as ever, though her hands stayed gloved and safe against his shoulders.
She shook, "I-If you w-want to s-show them-" Victor's eyes darkened, something shifting behind them recognition, perhaps, or surprise.
He leaned closer, just enough that she could feel the heat of his breath against her temple. "Show them what, exactly?" he murmured, his words quiet, meant only for her.
Giselle's fingers tightened on his shoulders, her knuckles pale beneath the thin silk of her gloves. "That this isn't just... politics." Her voice wavered, but she forced herself to meet his gaze. "That you don't just tolerate me."
The waltz turned them in a slow arc, and she caught another glimpse of Elena, watching with undisguised fascination. Her stomach twisted. A low, rumbling sound escaped Victor's chest, something between a scoff and a laugh. "Tolerate you," he repeated, the words tasting strange on his tongue. His gaze swept over her face, from the frantic pulse at her throat to the determined set of her jaw. "Is that what you think?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His hand slid from her waist, up the delicate curve of her spine, coming to rest at the nape of her neck, his fingers tangling in the damp tendrils of her hair. The music seemed to slow, stretching the moment into an eternity. The court held its breath.
Then, he kissed her. The touch was deliberate, precise, yet no less consuming for its restraint. His lips claimed hers, firm and certain, and Giselle felt the last of her composure dissolve. The whispers of the courtiers faded into nothing. The air in the hall seemed to thicken, pressing close, as if the very walls were watching.
His mouth moved against hers, and she realized he was kissing her as though they were alone no audience, no game, just the two of them standing in the middle of the great hall. The thought sent a jolt through her, something between terror and exhilaration. Her hands left his shoulders, drifting upward to clutch at the fabric of his coat, fingers curling into the rough wool. Panic rose in her chest but before it could be deemed as improper he pulled away gently dipping her as the song came to a soft end. He held her there for a suspended moment, her body arched over his arm, her dark hair cascading toward the floor, his storm grey eyes holding hers with an intensity that felt like a brand. The final note of the waltz lingered, then dissipated into a sudden, deafening silence.
Then, applause erupted polite, measured, the sound of a courtly audience approving a well-executed performance. Victor pulled her upright, his hands steadying her as the world righted itself with a dizzying lurch. The heat of his touch lingered at her waist, his fingers a firm imprint through the layers of her dress.
Her lips still burned.He guided them back to the high table, his hand a steadying presence at the small of her back. The applause continued, a wave of sound that felt both approving and predatory. Giselle's vision swam for a moment, the torches blurring into halos of light. She could feel the phantom pressure of his mouth on hers, a brand that seemed to silence the chaos in her mind.
Lord Darion rose from his seat, his silver goblet raised. "To the Duke and his lovely consort," he declared, his voice carrying over the din. "May their union be as passionate as their dance."
A ripple of laughter and murmurs followed. Lady Isolde offered a thin, knowing smile. Elena Loris clapped with theatrical delight, her green eyes glittering with something sharp and hungry. The moment stretched, taut with unspoken expectations. Victor inclined his head in acknowledgment of the toast, his expression carefully neutral. His thumb pressed once against the small of Giselle's back a silent reassurance, or a warning, it was impossible to tell. The heat of his touch remained, a physical reminder of what had just transpired.
He turned to face the hall Giselle stood by him as he addressed the room. "Thank you all for your... enthusiasm," Victor said, his words carrying easily over the murmuring crowd. His arm still encircled Giselle's waist, his grip firm and unyielding. "I trust you will all join us in a toast to my lady wife."
Giselle felt pinned between the heat of his body and the unblinking stares of the court. She forced herself to stand straight, to meet the gazes of those who now regarded her as something more than a simple wife. Her heart still pounded from the kiss, from the way his lips had moved against hers with such careful precision.
The goblets were raised, the room tilting with the movement. "To the Duchess," someone called out.
Victor turned slightly, his fingers shifting to rest just above the curve of her hip. "To the Duchess," he echoed, his gaze never leaving hers. The wine touched her lips, cool and sharp against her flushed skin. Giselle smiled warmly at the applause before making her own announcement Giselle smiled warmly at the applause before making her own announcement. "My lords and ladies," she said, speaking with steady grace, though her heart still fluttered in her chest. "I hope you'll indulge me by raising your glasses once more to my husband, whose dedication to Greyhaven has made this banquet possible."
She turned her head just enough to meet Victor's gaze, watching as his brow arched slightly, the barest hint of surprise flickering across his features. His hand remained steady at her waist, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly. The gesture was subtle, but to her, it felt like the entire hall fell away.
The applause swelled again, more genuine this time.
*******
The rest of the banquet began to die down into the early morning hours it was still dark. Giselle fought back sleep as she nurtured her goblet, the golden liquid inside warm and inviting. The great hall had emptied, leaving only the glow of the dying hearth and the distant sounds of servants cleaning up the last remnants of the feast. Victor had disappeared an hour ago, called away by some urgent matter involving the harbor, his stormy eyes meeting hers with something unreadable before he left her standing alone near the high table.
Alone except for Elena Loris, who seemed to have materialized from the shadows like some specter of spite. The woman stood beside her now, her fingers trailing along the edge of the oak table, her nails tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm against the polished wood. "What a..." Elena's voice was a soft purr, "Performance."
Giselle turned to face her, setting her goblet down with exaggerated care. The wine sloshed dangerously close to the rim. "Did you enjoy yourself, Lady Elena?"
Elena's lips curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Oh, indeed," she replied, her gaze drifting to where Victor had been standing earlier. "Though I must confess, I found the finale... particularly instructive."
Giselle cocked an eyebrow, shifting up from her chair she downed the last bit of wine "And why is that?"
Elena stepped closer, her dark eyes glinting in the firelight as she moved with calculated slowness. "Because," she began, her words a silken thread, "it showed me exactly what kind of game you're playing, little Duchess."
Giselle's jaw tensed, but she kept her expression carefully neutral. "Game?" she asked, tilting her head slightly. "How curious that you would describe my marriage in such terms."
Elena laughed, a sound like shattering glass. "Marriage?" she scoffed, her hand moving to trail along the table's edge. Her fingers hovered near Giselle's discarded goblet, then traced the rim almost absently. "This is a courtship, if anything. The Duke was certainly attentive tonight." A beat passed. Then, softer, more pointed: "Almost... devoted."
The words settled uncomfortably between them. Giselle's skin prickled with unease, though she kept her expression composed. She crossed her arms, shifting her weight onto one foot. "You assume much, Lady Elena."
Elena's smile sharpened. "Do I?" She stepped closer still, just enough that Giselle could smell the faint aroma of roses and something darker underneath. "I wonder if the Duke knows what he has in you." Her eyes locked onto Giselle's, studying her like a predator sizing up its prey. "Or perhaps he does," she mused, her voice dipping lower, softer. "And that's why he's clinging to you so tightly. He must know that something so... alluring is rare."
Giselle's fingers tightened against the edge of the table, her nails digging into the polished wood. "Alluring?" she repeated, the word slipping from her lips like a challenge. "And you would know about allure, wouldn't you, Elena?"
Elena chuckled, a sound both amused and pleased. "Oh, I do," she murmured, leaning in just slightly, close enough that Giselle could see the faint flecks of gold in her green irises. "I know it because I see how men react to it. How they look at it." Her gaze dropped briefly to Giselle's lips before meeting her stare again. "And I know it because I recognize the hunger in them when they see it in others."
Giselle forced herself to hold her ground, though every instinct screamed to put space between them.
"And yet, I do not see you with any such look in your eyes," she replied, tilting her chin up. "Unless you're simply jealous of something you cannot possess."
Giselle sighed rising from her seat unable to stomach her riddles any longer, "I shall take my leave Lady Elena, I hope you had a riveting evening. Please send my regards to your father." Elena's smile only widened at the dismissal.
"I'm certain I will," she purred. "Though I suspect my father would be more interested in knowing what my dear Duke's 'consort' intends to do with her newfound attention."
Giselle's stomach twisted, though she forced her face into a cool mask. She swept her skirts back as she turned away, her posture straight and composed. "Goodnight, Elena," she said, her tone clipped.
"Goodnight, Giselle," Elena called after her, the words sweet as poisoned honey. "Sleep well."
When she retreated into the hall she pulled a nearby servant, "Has there been any from the Harbor?" The servant, a wiry young man with soot-smudged sleeves, bowed quickly. "Yes, my lady. Two hours past, word came of a damaged merchant vessel near the rocks south of the keep. The Duke went himself to oversee the salvage. He said not to wake you unless—"
Giselle interrupted, her mind already moving. "Thank you. That will be all."
She turned down the corridor, her steps quick and quiet. The stone beneath her feet felt colder now, or perhaps she was simply more aware of it. When she arrived to her chambers she quickly undressed glancing out the window she could see the angry sea.
Giselle pulled a wool shawl around her shoulders, tying it tight as she stepped out onto the narrow balcony. The wind was sharp, carrying the smell of salt and damp wood, and the roar of the waves was intense. She gripped the stone railing, her fingers curling around the cold surface as she looked out at the darkened harbor. Through the mist and torchlight, she could make out the silhouettes of boats bobbing in the water, but no sign of Victor's return.
The thought of him out there, in the storm, sent a ripple of unease through her. She wasn't sure if it was concern or something deeper, something she didn't want to name. She breathed in the fresh air it soothed her mind she had taken in so much information in one evening it was dizzying how would she keep her mind straight?
The wind tugged at her shawl, pulling strands of dark hair across her face as she scanned the harbor. The storm had intensified, rain lashing the water in great sheets. A single lantern moved among the boats Victor, no doubt, coordinating the rescue efforts, putting his life at risk as he always did. Always so reckless. Always so...
Clara appeared at the chamber door, hesitant. "My lady?"
Giselle didn't turn. "The Duke is in the harbor," she said, still watching the lantern bob against the darkness.
Clara sighed. "Yes."
"I should go to him, what if he needs support?" Clara stepped closer, the lantern glow flickering over her face. "He has the harbor master, the shipwrights, he does not need a duchess in the rain."
Giselle frowned, her grip tightening. "He is still my husband."
"And you are still his responsibility," Clara said gently. "If he wanted your presence, he would have summoned you. Or at least ensured someone knew where he was going."
The words stung, though Giselle refused to show it. She studied the lantern in the distance, the way the wind made it dip and sway. "He must be freezing." Giselle's voice was softer than she intended. She pulled the shawl tighter around her shoulders as another gust of wind blew through the balcony.
Clara crossed the room, stopping beside her at the railing. "He is strong, my lady. And stubborn." She paused. "Like you."
Giselle shot her a sideways glance, but there was no malice in Clara's words only an echo of understanding.
The rain fell harder now, streaming down the stone walls of the keep. In the harbor below, the lantern had stopped moving. Victor must have reached the damaged ship.
"You should rest," Clara said after a long moment. "You will see him soon enough."
Giselle nodded, "I will." But she remained, watching the rain blur the lights of the harbor into misty halos. Somewhere out there, in the storm, Victor fought the waves. She could almost imagine him standing at the helm of the rescue boat, water soaking through his coat, his hands tight on the wheel as he guided his men toward the wreckage.
Finally, when the wind had driven rain into her hair and the lantern in the harbor began its return journey, Giselle stepped back inside. Clara had kindled a fire, and she stood waiting by the hearth. "You may go, Clara I can put myself to bed." Giselle dried her hair as she stood by the fire letting the warmth seep into her skin. Clara dipped her head. "Of course, my lady." She moved toward the door but paused. "The Duke... he will return before dawn. The harbor master promised it."
Giselle nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Clara left, closing the heavy oak door softly behind her.
A few more hours passes but Giselle couldn't sleep she kept an eye on the harbor for as long as she could, then she finally heard it the hooves beating up the path. Torchlight flared in the courtyard as the riders dismounted. Victor's voice cut through the rain, sharp and urgent, as he barked orders. Giselle threw the covers aside and crossed the room barefoot, not bothering with slippers. She yanked the door open and stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, pulling the shawl tight around her shoulders. The air smelled of wet stone and smoke from the dying torches. She moved swiftly toward the stairs, bare feet silent on the cold steps.
Below, she watched as Victor helped guide an injured man inside. The sailor leaned heavily against the Duke, blood matting his dark hair. Victor looked up the stairs and spotted her immediately. His face was a mask of exhaustion, his hair plastered to his forehead, his coat dark with rain and sea spray. The sailor groaned as Victor steadied him, guiding him toward the waiting servants with the infirmary. Giselle descended the last few steps, her bare feet cold against the stone. Victor gave the injured man one last nod before he turned fully toward her. "Giselle," he said, his words rough with weariness.
"You should be in bed."
"And you should not have been out there alone," she replied, her voice sharper than she intended. She moved closer, studying his face. She reached out to touch him he felt like ice she yanked her hand back in shock His skin was slick with rain and sea spray, colder than the stone beneath her feet. Victor's lips pressed into a thin line as he shook his head, a faint smirk touching the corner of his mouth. "The sea does not wait for warmth, Duchess."
Giselle frowned, her concern outweighing any retort. "You could have sent for me. I could have helped." She raised her hand again, slower this time, and touched his cheek. The cold was stark, but his skin beneath it was firm, alive. Victor's eyes flickered at the contact, his breath coming heavier from the exertion of the rescue. His gaze met hers, and something unspoken passed between them—something that made Giselle's pulse quicken despite the cold. He placed his hand over hers where it rested against his cheek, his grip careful but unrelenting.
"Helped how?" he murmured, his words quieting. "By standing in the rain with me? Or by staying here, where you could be warm and waiting when I returned?" His thumb brushed the side of her hand, rough with callouses.
Giselle opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her pulse quickened instantly was he teasing her? rolling her eyes she helped him remove the heavy outer layers, "What happened?"
Victor pulled off the sodden coat, revealing his equally wet undershirt beneath. The fabric clung to his shoulders and torso, leaving little to the imagination. Giselle caught herself watching the rise and fall of his chest before looking away. He didn't answer immediately, instead running a hand through his wet hair, droplets scattering onto the stone floor.
"We had to board the wreck," he finally said, the words rough. "The ship was taking on water faster than we expected. The sailor—Gareth—he fell on deck when a wave hit. Broke his leg. We had to pull him up, lash him to the rescue boat, and fight our way back through the storm." His hand remained on her wrist as he spoke, his grip warm now. The proximity was intimate, the flickering torchlight catching the storm-darkened strands of his hair. He hadn't released her yet. Giselle felt her skin prickle under his touch. "That was foolish," she said, not entirely sure if she was still speaking of the rescue or something else entirely.
Victor's smirk returned, tired but genuine. "No more foolish than staying up half the night worrying about me." He tugged gently on her wrist, drawing her closer. The warmth of his body radiated through his damp clothing, emanating from his skin like embers from a fire. "Y-You need a bath! if you stay out here any longer you'll die!" Victor's laugh was a soft, dry sound. "Would you join me to make sure?" The challenge in his tone made Giselle's breath catch. She should have stepped back, put space between them, reclaimed some dignity. Instead, she found herself staring at the dampness clinging to his throat, the way his hair curled at the ends where water had soaked through. "I would not want you catching your death," she said lightly, though her pulse betrayed her.
Victor's grip tightened slightly. "Then help me," he murmured. Giselle's gaze flickered to his. The storm in his grey eyes had dulled, replaced by something warmer, more intent. It had been a few weeks since they had shared their first night together but her mind swam with excitement from the possibility of pleasure, "Lead on" She remarked. Victor's fingers laced through hers, his palm still damp from the sea, and he pulled her gently toward the stairwell. The corridor was dim, lit only by the dying torches, and the stone floor was slick underfoot. Giselle followed, her bare feet silent against the chill, her shawl trailing behind her like a banner.
"You'll catch a chill," he murmured, glancing back at her. His voice was rough with exhaustion, but his eyes burned with something else something that made Giselle's pulse stutter.
"I'm fine," she said, though the air bit at her skin.
The bathing chamber was warmer, the fire stoked high by some unseen servant. Steam rose from the enormous stone tub, and Victor released her hand only to shed the remainder of his damp clothes. Giselle caught herself staring his broad shoulders, the lean muscles of his torso, the dark hair dusting his chest, the way water still clung to his skin, glistening in the firelight. She swallowed hard, turning away to unfasten her shawl and let it drop to the floor. When she faced him again, he was already stepping into the water, the steam curling around his legs as he submerged himself. Giselle hesitated, her fingers working at the ties of her nightgown. Victor watched her from the water, his grey eyes dark with something unreadable.
"Do you require assistance?"