Episode 15
869 Words
Hearts Made of Fire and Fog
The sky was low and velvet dark when Edger returned. The carriage wheels had barely stopped turning before Hyacinth saw him from her window—his silhouette tall, cloaked in grey, and visibly tense.
She hadn’t told him what she found yet.
Not about the ledgers.
Not about the portrait.
Not about the name.
Not yet.
But tonight… something inside her whispered it wouldn’t wait much longer.
Edger found her in the solarium. The glass roof was soaked with mist and framed the moon in a perfect arch of pale silver.
He paused in the doorway. “You’re awake.”
Hyacinth turned. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He entered slowly, unfastening his coat.
“Neither could I,” he said, voice a little husky. “I kept thinking about you.”
She swallowed, sensing the weight behind his words. His gaze was intense—but softer than usual. And tired. Not physically, but like he’d been fighting something long before she arrived in his life.
“How did the council go?” she asked.
“They all want land and none want responsibility. Typical,” he said, but then his expression changed.
“Did something happen here?” he asked, stepping closer. “You look… different.”
Hyacinth hesitated.
“I learned something today,” she said. “About you. About your family.”
He froze.
She stepped forward and placed her hand lightly on his chest. “I’m not asking for answers tonight. Just… don’t run from me.”
“I’ve never run from you,” he whispered.
“No. But you’ve hidden.”
He didn’t deny it.
She moved closer. “Let me in, Edger. Let me help you carry whatever you’re afraid of.”
He stared at her—long and slow—before suddenly leaning forward and capturing her mouth with his.
It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t demanding.
It was a slow, aching kind of kiss. Like he’d been waiting for this moment to be real.
She reached for his collar as his hands cupped her jaw, thumbs grazing her cheekbones. He tasted of honey and rain. Familiar. Dangerous. Safe.
He pulled away just enough to look at her.
“You’re not like anyone I’ve known,” he murmured.
“Good,” she said breathlessly. “I didn’t come here to be forgettable.”
He let out a soft laugh, lowering his head to press a kiss to her neck, then to her shoulder as he slipped one strap of her gown down.
“I keep thinking you’ll vanish,” he admitted. “That one day I’ll wake up and you’ll be gone.”
Hyacinth tilted his chin up to meet her eyes.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she said. “But if you want to keep me, you’ll have to stop pushing me away.”
“I’m trying,” he whispered.
And then he pulled her closer—flesh to flesh, heart to heart.
They sank to the chaise, hands wandering, mouths moving, her fingers tracing every scar, every line of tension across his back. The hem of her nightdress rose slowly, and his hand paused at her thigh.
“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low.
“I am,” she breathed, “but keep your promises.”
He raised a brow.
“You said you’d change that dreadful pink wall in my room.”
He let out a low chuckle and kissed her again.
Later, as they lay tangled together in the moonlight—her head on his chest, the slow rise and fall of his breath grounding her—Hyacinth stared at the shadows crawling along the ceiling.
“Can I ask you something?” she murmured.
“Anything,” Edger replied, his hand trailing lazy circles down her spine.
“What do you know about your real name? Before Thompson.”
He stiffened beneath her.
Silence.
“I… heard something,” she added gently. “From the old family records.”
“Who told you?”
“I read it myself.”
Edger sat up slowly, moving away from her warmth like it burned him.
“That name,” he said finally, “is dead.”
“Then why does your father’s portrait still wear the crest?”
His silence said more than his words.
“You’re not just a duke by title, are you?” she pressed. “You’re something more.”
“I don’t want that past, Hyacinth. I buried it. Along with everything it ruined.”
“But it’s still shaping you.”
He stood, pulling his shirt back on. “I don’t want you involved.”
“I am involved. I’m your wife,” she said, standing too, clutching the sheet around her.
“Which is exactly why I want to protect you.”
“Then start by being honest.”
He looked at her—conflicted, vulnerable.
“I will,” he said at last. “But not tonight. Please.”
Hyacinth didn’t press further. Not yet.
But something was clear now.
The name Thompson wasn’t the beginning of his story.
And if he wouldn’t uncover the truth, she would.
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