Elsewhere, far from the darkness of the wild, beneath an oak moon,
fair snow drifts through the air.
He slows after the long escape, the forest finally falling away behind them,
a moribund field, blanketed in white, opening wide along the road.
Her bare hands are numb with cold, arms wrapped tight around his waist. Still,
she clings to his warmth, a ripple of serenity unfurling in her chest.
No words have been exchanged since before, and she secretly prefers it this way, for although the uncertainty of tomorrow looms, her heart beats tranquil.
For she has already become sole with the soul of her beloved, riding the current of this blessed life… hand in hand with him.
Ivory-coated pines line the streets, twinkling with Christmas lights, dazzling in the darkness as they pass, far from the cozy home they left behind in Vernellia.
Yet, she knows she could leave everything behind. Bare and unburdened, so long as her Father shelters them,
so long as Rhett walks by her side.
The street fades into a blinding white fog, moments slipping past them.
As he pulls into the outskirts of a town, she reluctantly draws away from his warmth.
She dismounts, slipping off her helmet, fingers threading through her wind-tangled hair as her gaze lifts to the vintage inn, glowing soft and honey-lit in the night.
"Give it to me," he says.
She meets his unreadable gaze, his dark hair damp and tousled, his jaw set. With a faint frown, she hands him the helmet.
"Let's get inside." He dismounts, taking her hand. "You're freezing—" His voice falters as his gaze falls to her bare feet.
"Your shoes—" He meets her eyes, an unguarded look of something between worry and guilt settling across his face.
Warmth creeps across her cheeks as she glances down at her muddied white socks, toes curling into the snow in utter embarrassment.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he whispers.
A chilly breeze swirls through her curls, a gasp escaping her as he lifts her off her feet.
"What are you doing?" she protests softly, even as her arms settle around his neck. "What will people say?"
"I don't give a damn." His gaze remains fixed ahead as they near the inn. And her heart sinks at the coldness in his tone.
A soft ting of bells greets their entry, weaving with the rush of wintry wind that slips in behind them before the door falls shut.
A bearded, chubby man behind the counter greets them with a kind smile,
seemingly unbothered by the sight of her in her fiancé's arms.
"Looking for a shelter in the cold I presume?" the receptionist ask, already retreating behind the counter,
the soft jingle of keys trailing after him.
Neither of them responds.
Her fiancé gently lowers her to the floor before moving toward the receptionist.
As the cold from her damp sweater seeps deeper, she hugs herself, her gaze roaming the quiet lobby where lanterns cast a gentle warmth across the wooden walls.
"She'll need boots," Rhett says.
She glances toward him, her cheeks heating as she notices the receptionist studying her blackened, once-white socks.
The receptionist nods. "We've had worse walk in. Some salve, and something dry and warm should do too, I suppose?"
"Yes," Rhett says quietly.
The receptionist smiles gently. "At the right place and at the right time." He nods toward a door beside the counter. "Come along."
Rhett extends his hand as Neva moves toward him. His fingers intertwine with hers, and together they follow the receptionist into the small storeroom.
The scent of bitter herbs lingers in the air, woven with a musky trace of wood and the starchy smell of clothes.
Her gaze moves over glass jars with tiny labels, lined in rows along one wall,
before settling to the neatly folded shawls and boots stacked on the other.
"Hoard whatever you wish for." The receptionist waves along the room, a cheerful smile curling on his lips.
She returns a smile and steps toward the small selection of coats and sweaters.
While her fiancé studies the boots with that taut frown between his brows,
the one that appears so often when his concentration runs deep.
With the grey and white oversized sweaters tucked into her arms, she turns just as Rhett lifts a pair of brown leather boots toward her.
"Not exactly comfy," he says, brow furrowing as he tests their weight.
"But they're all they have in your size."
The receptionist lifts a fist to his mouth, clearing his throat in disapproval, one arm tucked neatly behind his back.
Neva just smiles at Rhett. "They'll do."
"Room six, down the hall," the receptionist announces at the counter, handing over the keys after the payment is settled.
"As it says," Rhett remarks, eyebrow rising as he studies the key, the number six etched sharply into the metal.
The receptionist winks. "Just my call."
"Enjoy your stay." His cheerful tone fades as they step into the quiet, narrow corridor.
With a turn of the metal key, the door opens, the lantern light draping the small room in an amber warmth.
"You should take a warm shower first," he suggests, the door thudding softly behind him.
She remains silent, laying their bought items across the bed, the clean white linens and pillows glowing softly in the lantern light.
She squeezes her arm, biting her lip, as the flood of emotions finally washes over her.
With each soft step against the floor,
his heat brushes her spine,
and she swallows down the lump lodged in her throat.
"What's wrong, Angel?" He draws her close, arms strong around her waist, pressing his face in the crook of her neck.
"You're being different," she murmurs, hands resting over his. "You don't even want to know what got us here?"
He says nothing, his even breaths stretching across the stillness holding them.
"Has something changed?" Her throat tightens as she struggles to keep her voice steady.
"Not in a way you should worry about." His low voice hums against her skin.
"He just came into our apartment," she says, swallowing against the lump in her throat.
"Acted… strange." She falters for a beat, his heartbeat steady against her back.
"He threatened me with a gun to his own chest, and after that,
I only remember waking up in that place."
His embrace tightens, his breath growing uneven. Then, after a tense silence, he murmurs, "What did he want, Angel?"
She presses her lips together, unable to form words.
"He… he told me we knew each other… before… before I disappeared."
She hesitates, voice uneven. "But I... I promise, I don't know what he's talking about. I don't know any grandpa who took him in… or raised us together."
"You said you had amnesia… ten years'," he murmurs, voice muffled.
"Yes… yes, I did," she whispers.
"But I know what's real. I didn't believe him even for a moment."
"You shouldn't," he warns.
"You're not angry… with me?" she asks quietly.
He pivots her to face him, their eyes locking.
"What are you talking about?" His brow creases, concern softening his frown. "Why would I be angry with you?"
She fiddles with the zipper of his leather jacket.
"I made you worry… and he doesn't seem like a man to underestimate." Her gaze lifts, steadying on his. "Who is he, Rhett? I—I'm afraid we'll never return home."
"He's no one," he whispers, hand resting on her head as he draws her against his chest.
Her fingers dig into his jacket as tears dampen the fabric.
"I thought…" she swallows, voice trembling. "I thought I'd never see you again."
"Nothing can ever take me from you," he murmurs, drawing her closer. "Nothing…"
Her words come muffled against his chest as she finally breaks her curiosity. "Why… why does that man look like you?"
He lets out a sharp snort of disbelief. "Where on earth does he even resemble me?"
She leans back slightly, letting her eyes follow the elegant planes of his face.
"Well…
he looks a little like you, but not really."
She meets his eyes, earnest. "I knew the moment I saw him that he wasn't you. You're far more striking."
He lets out a quiet chuckle. "Am I?" His hands hold her face firmly, then he leans in to kiss her softly.
"Wait here." He heads toward the door on the other side of the bed,
probably the bathing room.
A heavy sigh leaves her lips as she sinks onto the mattress, grimacing while tugging off the blackened socks.
A moment later, he returns with a wash basin and towel.
"What are you doing?" She frowns as he kneels before her, fingers brushing her feet with tenderness.
"Looking after my wife-to-be." He meets her eyes, a warm smile curving his lips.
She bites her lip, heat rising in her cheeks. "Well, then," she says, attempting a casual tone.
Even as her core melts at the gentleness of his hands,
tending her feet in the basin, warm water cascading from the jug as he cleans them.
She gasps, hands gripping the sheets, as he glides over a cut.
"I'm sorry," he breathes. "I'm sorry…"
"It's fine," she whispers.
A low, shaky sigh leaves him as he carefully pats her feet with the towel.
She tilts her head, silently watching him rise and reach for the small green jar of ointment.
She presses her palms into the mattress as he slides beside her,
lifting her feet onto his thighs.
His fingers trace carefully over her skin, applying the ointment with care.
"Is something troubling you?" she asks, brushing past the slight sting of the otherwise soothing, cool ointment.
Worry presses on her chest as he stays silent.
She reaches over, hand on his shoulder as she hears a heavy sigh escape him.
"Rhett?" she whispers.
"If…" A shaky sigh leaves him. "If… something happened to you…" He swallows hard.
"I… I wouldn't know what I'd—"
"Shh…" She enfolds him in her arms, breathing in the familiar scent of musk and snow on his damp shirt, letting it anchor her in this fleeting moment of peace.
"I'm safe here," she murmurs, heart aching at his exposed vulnerability.
She presses a kiss to his shoulder, his hand holding her arm firmly. "Nothing happened. You saved me. Father brought you to me."
"Did He?" he asks, voice low.
"Of course." Her eyes lock with his. "Otherwise, how could you have found me so fast and gotten us away?"
A small smile curves his lips as he cups her face, thumb tracing her cheekbone.
"Yes… I'd even pray more if He let tonight go by without any issues."
She pouts, playfully shoving him away by the chest. "You can't say that! And really… your faith could use some effort."
Halfway back on the bed, she peels off her damp sweater.
She tosses it onto the sofa,
gasping sharply as he leaps over her, toppling her onto the pillows.
"Rhett!" she laughs, the sound bright as his kisses dance across her face and down her neck. There he is—hers, all hers again.
A small grin curves her lips as she smooths his dark hair back from his brow,
her hand pausing there as he takes her left hand in his.
"You have no idea how much pain I'm in," he mutters, eyeing the ring on her finger. "We should just get married tomorrow."
She laughs softly, cradling his face before pulling him into a kiss.
"Really…" His breath trembles against her lips. "I can't wait to make you mine," he says softly, "mine... in every possible way."
His lips brush hers, coaxing,
until the kiss deepens, heat building in slow wildness, slipping into something far more dangerous than it should be.
Before it can go too far,
she gathers what little strength she has and eases him away. "Not yet," she breathes, voice catching. "Not yet."
He lets out a muffled groan against her neck before she nudges him back, sending him onto his back with playful insistence.
She smiles at the tortured look in his eyes and boops his nose lightly. "Just a little longer." But as she tries to slip off the bed,
he catches her elbow and tugs her back into another kiss.
He simply grins, falling back against the pillows, arms tucked behind his head as if triumphed.
She shakes her head, chuckling under her breath as she gathers her clothes and slips toward the bathing room,
half-wondering if even the coldest water could tame the warmth unfurling within her.
She pauses at the threshold, stealing one last glance, only to catch him watching her, his gaze dark with restrained longing that sends a tremor through her.
She retreats into the bathing room, fingers tightening against the marble basin as she struggles to regain control.
She meets her own eyes in the round Victorian mirror, heat rising in a slow crimson tide along her cheeks and neck.
A shaky breath escapes her. God help them… not another moment like this.
Her hand rises to her chest, feeling the rapid beat beneath her palm as she prays the night will pass without incident.
Yet she would only learn hours later that her racing heart would beat for a far different reason, and that her prayer would shift into a desperate plea for the Lord to bring dawn in mercy,
before either of them lies dead and cold.