Chapter 40
Flora POV
Four Days Later
The walls were too quiet now. The sunlight no longer felt warm. It spilled through the sheer curtains like faded memories, brushing gently against the carpeted floor, but I couldn't feel it. I just sat there—knees pulled to my chest, arms around them—as if curling into myself could make the guilt disappear.
It didn't.
It's been four days. Four days since Nanny bled on marble floors. Four days since I screamed so loud the chandeliers shook. Four days since Nicolas carried me out of that cursed hall and held me as I trembled.
And four days since I last spoke to anyone... except Lysa.
I hadn't cried again. Not because I didn't want to, but because the tears had dried into something heavier. Guilt had a way of hardening inside your chest until it pressed against every breath.
The last words I ever said to her—my nanny, my guardian, the only person who ever truly knew me—were laced in anger.
"Let me go. Just for once. Stop treating me like a child. Nicolas cares about me, even if no one else does."
She had looked at me with those tired, knowing eyes. The ones that always saw too much. "It is because he cares that he must stay away, Flora. You will not understand now, but one day—"
I cut her off. Told her she was wrong. Told her I hated her hovering, her rules, her fear.
And now...
Now, she is gone. Because she drank from the cup meant for me.
Confrontation with Lysa
Lysa knocked gently, her soft voice threading through the door. "Miss Flora? You should eat something. I made that tea you like."
I didn't answer. I stared at the empty spot across the room. Where my nanny used to sit when I had nightmares. Where she'd hum old lullabies while brushing out my hair. The silence there was the worst.
The door creaked open. Lysa stepped in, carrying a silver tray, her movements delicate. She had a kind face—round, freckled, with eyes the color of wet ash—and her hands were always warm. Gentle. She sat beside me on the edge of the bed and placed the tray down without a word.
"I know it hurts," she murmured, stroking my hair. "You loved her." I didn't reply. My throat burned.
"She loved you too," Lysa continued, her voice hushed and careful, like she knew my walls were made of cracked glass. "She died protecting you, Flora. But she wouldn't want you to waste away in guilt."
I blinked, staring at the untouched tea.
"She told me to stay away from Nicolas," I whispered.
Lysa nodded slowly. "She was worried. Most caretakers are. But that doesn't make your feelings wrong."
My gaze finally lifted to meet hers. "He hasn't come."
Lysa hesitated. Then said gently, "He has. Every morning since the attack." My breath caught.
She nodded again. "He waits at the gates, hoping you'll allow him in. But you don't. You ask me to turn him away."
I looked down, ashamed. "I thought he'd stop trying."
"He hasn't," Lysa whispered. "Because he cares. And maybe, if you see him—just once—it'll help you start healing." I have to admit, she always knew what to say to calm me down.
I didn't reply. But something inside me cracked.
The Garden
The garden smelled like rain even though the skies were dry. I walked barefoot, the cold stones grounding me. Lysa stood just a few paces behind, watching silently as Nicolas approached.
He looked tired. There were shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that didn't come from lack of sleep but from too many things left unsaid. He didn't wear the elaborate robes of his rank. Just black—simple and unadorned.
When his eyes met mine, he paused. "Flora," he said softly.
My heart stuttered.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
I didn't know what I expected—grand words, flowery apologies, or anger, perhaps—but not this. Not this raw, stripped-down version of him.
"You shouldn't be here," I muttered.
"I had to see you."
I turned my face away. "You came too late."
He stepped closer. "I wanted to come sooner, but your maid said you weren't ready." Lysa. Always the gatekeeper of my solitude.
"She said you needed time, and I gave it. But I missed you."
I said nothing.
He reached for my hand. I didn't pull away. It was warm—familiar in a way that made everything inside me ache. He squeezed it gently, like he knew he had no right but still wanted to try.
"I miss her too," he said, voice thick. "She didn't deserve that."
I swallowed. "I said awful things to her before she died."
"I think she knew you didn't mean them."
"But I did." My voice broke. "And now I can't take them back."
He stepped closer. "Then live in a way that honors her. Don't let grief chain you to silence." His hand touched my cheek, brushing away a tear I didn't realize had fallen.
Something shifted. I leaned into him, just a little. Enough for my head to rest against his shoulder. His arms folded around me like a memory, careful and unsure.
A quiet sob escaped me, muffled against his chest. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "For pushing you away." His breath caught. "I never left."
"What about Viona?"
"I don't feel anything when I'm with her. I'm not even certain she's my mate. I'll talk to my dad about it; he once had a mate. I'm sure he'll understand."
And when I looked up, our faces were close. Too close. I don't know who leaned in first. Maybe we both did.
But our lips met—soft, trembling. A kiss born from sorrow and need. Not passion. Not yet. Just a desperate longing for something human in the middle of pain.
Neither of us noticed the faint rustle in the hedge behind us. Or the shimmer of light reflecting off a camera lens. Lysa, unseen, lowered the device in her hand, her expression unreadable. She stepped back into the shadows and tapped on her screen. Photo sent. No name. No words. Just coordinates. And we—young, foolish, and aching—continued down a path we didn't know was being watched.
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