Chapter 11 Getting Back on Her Feet
1063 Words
Roland had stationed a man in the hallway. Not directly in front of the door—not so she’d feel watched—but close enough that no one could enter without being seen. A maid had brought hot water and clean linens. A doctor had stopped by to check her wound. Everything had been done with care, with order, with a kindness that left no room for complaint.
Thomas sat beside her, composed as always.
Elara knew him well enough to tell when he was holding something back. Not fear—not exactly. Fear was never visible in Thomas. It was more like a tension in his shoulders, a pause before he answered, the way his fingers remained still even when they wanted to clench.
“We’re not going back to the cottage, are we?” she asked in a low voice.
Thomas looked up.
“Not today,” he said at last. “It’ll depend on what they decide.”
Someone would decide when she could move, where she could sleep, who she could see. The prince had called it protection, and perhaps it really was. Perhaps Kael didn’t want to punish them. Perhaps he didn’t even want to scare them.
Somewhere in the palace, he was the one deciding that she would stay alive. Elara didn’t know if that protected her or just made her more visible.
But a decision made by others was still a decision made by others. Elara decided that, if she couldn’t choose the room, she would at least choose what to reveal about herself.
The door opened after a gentle knock. Roland entered but didn’t step forward right away. He waited for a signal from Thomas—or perhaps from Elara. It was a small, almost imperceptible gesture, but neither of them missed it.
“The doctor said you should eat something,” he said.
Elara nodded. “Yes, my lord.”
“Just Roland.”
The correction was gentle, but Elara felt Thomas stiffen. Her name seemed too simple to her in a moment of endless complications.
Roland stood still for another moment, then set a tray on the table next to the bed. Soft bread, clear broth, cut-up fruit. Nothing that might seem like a princely favor, but enough to be better than what a servant would normally receive.
Elara found herself distracted, staring at the tray of fruit pieces cut small enough to chew easily. Her mind suddenly presented her with an image she hadn’t summoned.
Two hands resting on top of hers. Hands lighter in color than Thomas’s, scented with lavender and clean fabric. She didn’t really remember her mother’s face, but the echo of those moments when, as a child, she’d eaten fruit sitting next to her resonated for a moment more deeply in her heart than in her mind.
The memory lasted only a moment.
Elara clutched the blanket.
“Elara?” Thomas’s voice brought her back to the room.
She blinked. “I’m fine.”
It wasn’t true.
Roland took a step closer. “Does it hurt?”
“A little.” She had to justify herself somehow. “I’d like to get up, more than anything.”
Thomas turned toward her. “No.”
“Just a few steps,” she tried to protest timidly.
Roland spoke before Thomas could. “The doctor said that a few steps, with help, might be good for you. Not on your own.”
Thomas gave him an unfriendly look.
“I don’t mean to contradict you,” Roland added. “But if she wants to get back on her feet, it’s best that it happens with someone ready to support her.”
Elara lowered her gaze. If Roland had been cruel, she would have known what to do with him.
Instead, he set the tray within reach and stepped back.
Careful. Again.
Elara hated that she noticed.
Thomas stood up, nodding, defeated by the evidence.
Elara placed her feet on the ground with cautious care.
The cold of the floor seeped through her skin. For a moment, she thought she could do it. The deepest wound on her leg tugged, but it didn’t give way. Her legs trembled, but they held her up. Thomas offered her his arm, and she placed her hand on it gratefully.
One step.
Then another.
The room narrowed to the next step.
The third step was worse. The pain shot through her side with cruel precision, so sharp it took her breath away. Elara clenched her teeth, but her body wouldn’t obey her. The room tilted.
Thomas took her by the elbow, but after she’d managed a second step, filled with optimism, he’d slightly loosened his guard and his grip.
Roland moved before she even realized she was falling.
His hands reached out decisively—one behind her back and one under the arm opposite the one her father was holding—grabbing her before her body gave way completely. Elara found herself pressed against him, her face just a few centimeters from his jacket, her breath ragged, and her fingers clinging to the dark fabric without her even realizing it.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Roland stood motionless.
He wasn’t holding her any tighter than necessary. Nor was he letting her go.
Heat rushed into her face. She tried to straighten, but her legs shook under her and her side caught hard enough to steal the next breath.
For one second, she held on to him.
Roland didn’t tighten his grip. Didn’t pull her closer. Didn’t let her fall.
“Forgive me,” she whispered. “I can’t—”
Roland glanced down at her briefly.
“There’s nothing to forgive.”
His voice was low. Steady. Not pitying.
Roland looked at Thomas, who had shifted closer to take his daughter’s weight. Only when Thomas had her did Roland let go.
Elara quickly returned to her seat, breathless and with cold hands.
She hadn’t even managed to cross the room.
She looked at the far wall.
Three steps away.
It might as well have been across the kingdom.
Roland didn’t immediately look away from Elara.
The girl was back sitting on the bed, pale, her hands clenched around the blanket, and her breathing still too shallow. She had apologized for falling. Roland didn’t know what to do with that.
He looked away first.
- Writer
