Married To Darkness
Chapter 438: Timely Rest

Chapter 438: Timely Rest

"You need to blend in," he said, tucking a fur-lined scarf around her shoulders. "And look less like a goddess."

"I don’t like being plain," she murmured as a joke as she ran a hand through her tangled red hair.

"You couldn’t be plain if you tried." His voice was low, hungry. "But even stars wear cloaks in the storm."

Jean and Lucius ducked into a perfume and apothecary shop next. Jean eyed every glass vial like a predator browsing prey.

Lucius smirked. "Trying to smell lovelier than you already do?"

"I know I already do," Jean replied. "I’m trying to enhance it,"

They bought soaps, perfumes—lavender, myrrh, and something strange and spicy Lucius couldn’t place but bought anyway.

A bathhouse and inn near the city’s carved wall beckoned them with steam rising from its stone chimneys. Inside, the warmth hit them like a blessing.

Salviana practically melted into the wooden benches, loosening her cloak as servants led them to private bathing quarters.

Jean slipped away first, muttering something about soaking the road out of her bones. Lucius disappeared with her.

Alaric lingered, watching Salviana untie her boots.

Hot water. Clean sheets. For the first time in what felt like weeks, there was no howling wind, no rumbling stomach, and no sword in arm’s reach.

"Hot water, clean sheets... now we just need full stomachs," Alaric murmured as he collapsed onto the edge of the bed, rolling his shoulders like someone trying to remember what peace felt like. "We are almost like people again."

"Speak for yourself," Salviana huffed, dragging her damp hair over one shoulder. "I feel like a mountain witch who just crawled out of a mud cave."

He chuckled, turning his head to look at her, and then... something softer overtook him. His gaze roamed over her robe-clad figure, the

A robe-clad figure, the blush that still clung to her cheeks from the bath, and the slight frizz of her curls—wild, free, untamed like her spirit.

Her bare feet padded softly against the wooden floor, and he swore, just for a moment, that she didn’t look human at all. She looked celestial. Untouchable. Made of divine heat and something ancient. Like a goddess who got lost and forgot to return to the stars.

"You look like my wife," he said again, quieter this time. And it was not a compliment—it was reverence.

Salviana tilted her head. "That’s because I am," she whispered, the corner of her lip twitching upward, though her heart thudded beneath her ribs like it wanted out. I am your wife. Even if I don’t understand what you are.

They sat at the small inn table where dinner had been brought in. The soup was steaming, thick with spices and mystery meats, the kind of food meant to warm the bones. Salviana immediately began eating—ravenous, grateful, tired. Alaric stirred his portion but didn’t touch it.

As always.

He never ate.

The spoon circled through the broth over and over again, a silent confession of what he was hiding. What he was enduring.

She glanced up at him through her lashes. He’s starving, she thought. Even if he won’t say it. Even if he pretends he can bear it. She hated the thought of him in pain. Hated the way he protected her from the truth like she was made of porcelain.

Salviana placed her spoon down gently. "Could you get me a towel?" she asked suddenly, feigning discomfort as she pressed the back of her hand to her flushed cheek. "My face feels too hot. From the bath, maybe."

He rose without hesitation, already halfway to the bathroom. "Of course, my love."

She waited until the door clicked shut.

And then she moved.

Quick, precise.

Her hand reached for the small fruit knife on the tray. She took a sharp breath, angled it, and drew it across her palm in a single line. Pain flared bright, but she didn’t flinch. She tilted her hand over his untouched bowl and let the blood drip—thick and vibrant, swirling into the ruddy soup like ink in water.

Please, she prayed. Let this help. Let this nourish you. Let this show you I see you, even if you won’t let me.

The bathroom door creaked. She panicked.

"Towel, yes. But did I leave my comb too?" she called out, her voice just slightly too cheerful. "I think I dropped it by the tub!"

A pause.

Then his voice: "Looking now."

She exhaled hard. Her hand had already started to knit back together. Her blood—divine in origin, blessed by gods long-silent—moved fast. She wiped her palm discreetly and quickly resumed her position, as though she had never moved.

A second later, the door opened.

Alaric stepped out, towel and comb in hand, eyebrows raised.

"Do I get a reward for my bravery?" he teased.

"You get to live," Salviana said dryly, offering a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He handed her the towel and sat.

The soup still steamed softly beside him.

She watched, nerves prickling along her spine like sparks ready to catch flame.

He lifted the spoon. Paused.

Then brought it to his lips.

One sip.

Then another.

And then he stilled.

His pupils dilated slightly. Not enough for most to notice—but she saw. She always saw.

His breathing deepened, just a touch. Like something long dormant had woken inside his chest and was stretching for the first time in days.

The spoon clinked softly as he set it down.

His eyes met hers.

There was a silence—no, a shift—between them. Something thick and unspoken.

"What did you do?" he asked, his voice low, strained, half awe, half accusation.

She swallowed. Her mouth opened—no words came out. She tried again.

"I love you," she whispered instead. "And I won’t sit by while you waste away for my comfort."

His jaw tensed. "Salviana—"

"I am not afraid of what you are, Alaric. Stop protecting me like I’m some mortal girl too delicate to hold your truth."

He rose slowly, every inch of his body taut, conflicted.

"You... fed me."

Her throat bobbed. "I nourished you."