Chapter 198. For One Dinner, I Let the World Spin Without Me
She leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the nape of his neck, sending a shiver through him that had nothing to do with the temperature. "Now, stop worrying about Lia for five minutes and worry about something else... Like how much I appreciate this view."
William let out a genuine laugh, a rare, unguarded sound that broke through the last of his melancholy. "The view...? You’re talking about my back?"
"I’m talking about the whole package, you ridiculous man." She moved around to face him, the water rippling between them.
Her hair was pinned up in a loose bun, damp strands clinging to her cheeks. "But seriously... Look at me."
He opened his eyes, meeting her gaze. Her expression was fierce with affection, a challenge to let go.
"Let it go, William... Just for tonight." Catherine smiled. "Let the world spin without you holding it up."
He reached out, his hand dripping with warm water, and cupped her cheek. "You’re very good at this..."
"I’ve had practice," she smirked, leaning into his palm. "Now, less talking, more relaxing."
"And if I catch you rubbing that chin again, I’m going to dunk your head under until you forget your own name."
"Is that a threat or a promise?" William asked, his lips curving into a real smile.
"Consider it both."
She pulled him toward her, and as they sank deeper into the heated embrace of the water, the shadows of the Valestria archives finally began to recede, drowned out by the steady, comforting rhythm of her heartbeat against his.
For the first time in days, the silence wasn’t heavy; it was peaceful.
...
The moon hung high over the forest, casting silver splinters through the windows of the house, but inside, the atmosphere was warm, golden, and smelled divine.
The dinner table was a battlefield of deliciousness. Catherine had outdone herself with a slow-roasted venison stew with root vegetables that had been simmering until the meat practically melted at the mere suggestion of a fork, paired with crusty bread that still held the heat of the oven.
"I swear, Catherine," William said, tearing off a piece of bread and mopping up the rich, savory gravy, "if I weren’t trying to be a disciplined warrior, I would eat this pot with my bare hands."
Catherine laughed, the sound bright against the quiet night. "Careful, Captain Grim..."
"If you lose your discipline, who’s going to scare the recruits?" She leaned across the table, her eyes dancing. "Besides, you need your strength."
"Apparently, you’ve decided to become a professional worrywart."
"I prefer ’deep thinker,’" William corrected, though his eyes softened as he watched her eat. "But I’ll concede this is perfect."
The meal passed in a comfortable rhythm of shared glances, light teasing, and the kind of effortless conversation that only comes from two people who have seen each other at their worst and still chose to stay.
There was a comfortable intimacy in the way their knees occasionally brushed under the table or how Catherine would steal a piece of meat from his plate while he wasn’t looking.
"Alright, alright, enough savory talk," Catherine declared, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin. "The main event is coming~!"
"I found some honey-glazed pears and cream in the larder." Catherine pressed her palms together. "It’s going to be the perfect finale for dessert~!"
William smiled, leaning back. "Now... that sounds like a plan."
Ten minutes later, Catherine returned from the kitchen with two small ceramic bowls.
"Ta-da~!" she announced proudly, setting them down.
"Whoaaaa...! I’m going to ruin this dessert now!" William took a spoonful, expecting the honeyed sweetness he had imagined.
Instead, his eyebrows shot upward. His tongue recoiled as if struck.
"Catherine," he said slowly, swallowing hard. "This tastes like..."
"Like heaven?" she prompted hopefully.
"Like someone tried to make honeyed pears but accidentally used pickled garlic brine instead of honey."
Catherine froze. She took a tentative bite of her own dessert.
Her face immediately contorted into something resembling someone who had just bitten into a lemon wrapped in onion skin. "What?! Cough...! N-No!"
"I used the honey jar! I specifically remember—" She grabbed the jar from the counter, squinting at the label. "Oh... Oh no..."
"Heh... would you look at that?" William leaned over to look. "This is the preserved garlic cloves."
Catherine groaned, dropping her head onto the table with a dramatic thunk. "I am a culinary genius in everything except sweets!"
"Why does this keep happening?!"
"I can butcher a boar, I can bake a loaf of bread, but the moment sugar enters the equation, I become a walking disaster!"
William couldn’t help it; a deep, rumbling laugh broke from his chest. "It’s not that bad. It’s... inventive. A savory dessert."
"Don’t you dare patronize me, William Wade," she pouted, though the corners of her mouth were twitching. "It’s humiliating."
"It’s endearing," he countered, reaching across the table to take her hand. "The great Catherine, conqueror of kitchens, defeated by a pear."
She looked up at him, her pout melting into a smile. "You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re mocking me."
She squeezed his hand, and for a moment, the comedy faded into something tender. The candlelight flickered between them, casting soft shadows across their faces.
"Come here..."
She pulled him closer, and they shared a kiss that tasted faintly of garlic and honey, a ridiculous, imperfect moment that was quintessentially them.
’She becomes more touchy and full of affection ever since that confession...’ William thought. "Well. Can’t complain at all."
Eventually, the dishes were cleared, and the fire in the hearth began to die down to glowing embers. They moved to the couch, limbs tangled together as they prepared to call it a night.
Catherine was already half asleep, her breathing evening out as she pressed her face against William’s shoulder.
"You can sleep first," William said while reading a book about tide stances. "I’ll move you to the bedroom after I want to sleep."
"Mmmm... Good night, my brooding knight," she murmured against his skin.
"Good night, my chaotic chef," he whispered back, kissing the top of her head.
He waited until her breathing became deep and rhythmic before he allowed himself to shift. He stared up at the darkened ceiling, the warmth of Catherine’s body beside him providing a temporary shield against the cold thoughts that refused to stay buried.
The laughter of the dinner, the absurdity of the garlic pears—it all faded. In its place came the image of Lia’s face in the training yard.
The way her eyes went hollow when she thought no one was watching. The way she moved, as if she were afraid of touching the world.
’How do I teach her to trust when everything she knows about love is transactional?’ the thought crept back in, unbidden and sharp. ’How do I show her she’s enough when she’s spent her whole life being told she’s never enough?’
He reached out, absently stroking Catherine’s hair, trying to anchor himself to the present, to the safety of this room.
But even as he held her, his mind was already miles away, standing in the cold wind of the training grounds, wondering how to save a girl who didn’t even know she needed saving.
...
The darkness of the bedroom was not empty; it was heavy, pressing against William’s chest like physical weight. Beside him, Catherine was a warm, breathing anchor, her arm draped across his torso, her heartbeat a steady rhythm that should have been soothing.
But for William, every pulse of her heart only seemed to underscore the frantic, irregular pounding in his own.
The lamp on the nightstand cast a weak, amber glow that barely fought back the shadows. It flickered, casting elongated, distorted shapes across the walls that looked uncomfortably like the grasping hands of the ghosts he had encountered in the archives.
His mind was a meat grinder, endlessly replaying the testimonies he had uncovered. The words weren’t just ink on parchment; they were screams frozen in time.
"She must learn to endure pain without expression. Pain is weakness. Weakness is failure."
The memory of the text burned hotter than the lamp. He could almost hear the cold, aristocratic voices of the Valestria elders as they discussed a child as if she were nothing more than a blade being tempered in fire.
He pictured Lia not as the girl he saw in the yard but as the child who had been broken piece by piece, her spirit systematically dismantled to make room for a weapon.
’How do you fix something that was built to be broken?’ he wondered, his jaw aching from how tightly he was clenching it. ’How do I teach her to feel when they taught her that feeling is a liability?’
The guilt gnawed at him. He felt like an accomplice to history, a man who had walked past the atrocities for years without knowing the true cost.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the blood, not just the blood of battle but the metaphorical blood spilled in the quiet halls of privilege, the slow bleeding of a soul until nothing remained but duty and steel.
His thoughts spiraled into a dark vortex: what if he failed?
What if his attempt to ’save’ her was just another form of control?
What if he became the very thing he hated?
His breathing became shallow, his muscles coiled like springs. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a precipice, waiting for the ground to give way.
The silence of the bedroom felt suffocating, each creak of the settling wood sounding like a bone snapping in the dark.