Chapter One Hundred Five: The Yearning
"No."
She wrenched herself from my arms, stumbling backward through the snow. Her face was a mask of horror and denial, her breath coming in ragged clouds that dissolved into the frozen air.
"No. No, no, no." She shook her head violently, as if she could physically dislodge the words I'd spoken. "You're lying. You have to be lying."
"Aira—"
"Don't call me that!" The scream tore from her throat, raw and desperate. "That's not my name! My name is Noora! Noora Grace! I live here with my father and my brother and my—my fiancé—"
"Julian," I said quietly. "The man who stole you. The man who's been feeding you lies since the moment you woke up in that clinic."
She backed away further, her boots leaving deep impressions in the snow. The space between us widened, and with every step, I felt the phantom pain of losing her all over again.
"You're a liar," she spat, tears freezing on her cheeks. "A cheat. Some—some sick man who preys on vulnerable women with memory loss. How dare you. How dare you touch me, kiss me, hold me, and then tell me—" Her voice broke. "Tell me I'm your wife?"
"I'm not lying." I kept my voice low, steady, though everything inside me was screaming. "Not about a single word."
"You are!" She was shaking violently now, whether from cold or shock or both, I couldn't tell. "I don't know you! I've never known you! You're a stranger who followed me, watched me, manipulated me into—into feeling things I shouldn't feel—"
"Is that what this is?" I took a careful step forward. "Manipulation? Tell me, Noora—" I let the false name hang in the air like poison. "—did I manipulate you into crying in my arms? Did I manipulate you into telling me Julian never holds you? Did I manipulate your body into recognizing mine?"
She flinched as if I'd struck her.
"Get away from me." Her voice dropped to a whisper, more terrifying than her screams. "Don't follow me. Don't come near me again."
She turned and ran.
I followed.
Not charging after her—just walking, matching her pace, refusing to let her disappear into the woods alone. The path was treacherous, icy in places, and she was blind with tears and panic.
"I said don't follow me!" she shrieked over her shoulder.
"And I said I'm always here waiting for you." My voice carried in the frozen air, steady as stone. "I meant it."
She stumbled, caught herself, kept running. I kept walking. The distance between us held steady—far enough to give her space, close enough to catch her if she fell.
"You don't know me!" she screamed, her voice cracking. "You don't know what I've been through, what I've lost, what I can't remember! You're just—just using my confusion to—"
"To what?" I called back. "To hold you while you cry? To warm your cold feet? To tell you that you're loved by someone who has never stopped loving you, not for a single second in eight months?"
She stopped running.
Her back was to me, her shoulders heaving with sobs. The snow fell around her like ash, dusting her dark hair, her red scarf, the shoulders of her cream coat.
"I don't believe you," she whispered.
"I know."
I kept walking, closing the distance slowly, carefully. She didn't run again. She just stood there, shaking, while I approached like a man approaching a wounded animal—with reverence, with patience, with the absolute certainty that one wrong move would send her fleeing forever.
When I was close enough to touch her, she spun around.
Her boot was in her hand.
She'd pulled it off—one of those expensive, fleece-lined things, heavy enough to do damage—and she hurled it at my face with a strength born of pure desperation.
I caught it.
One hand, mid-air, reflexes honed by a lifetime of violence and survival. The boot stopped inches from my face, suspended in my grip like a peace offering.
She stared, frozen, caught between horror at what she'd done and shock that I'd caught it.
I looked at the boot in my hand. Then at her bare foot, socked and reddening in the snow.
And I smiled.
Not a mocking smile. Not a triumphant one. Something softer, warmer, filled with an emotion that made her breath catch despite herself.
"When did my woman become so fierce?" I murmured.
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with wonder, with pride, with a love so vast it seemed to fill the entire forest.
She didn't move. Didn't speak. Just stared at me with those wide, tear-filled eyes, her chest heaving, her one bare foot sinking into the snow.
I took a step forward.
Then another.
She didn't retreat.
When I reached her, I didn't try to hold her. I didn't touch her face or pull her close. I simply lowered myself to my knees in the snow before her.
Her eyes widened.
I set her boot aside and reached for her bare foot—cold, reddened, trembling. My palms, warm despite the freezing air, closed around it gently. I cradled her frozen skin against my chest, letting my body heat seep into her, warming her the way I'd done a hundred times in a life she couldn't remember.
She made a small sound—half gasp, half sob—but didn't pull away.
"I've killed people without blinking," I said quietly, my eyes on her foot, my thumbs rubbing warmth into her cold skin. "I've done things that would make you sick to hear. I've been called a monster more times than I can count, and most of those times, I deserved it."
I looked up at her then, meeting those beautiful, confused, terrified eyes.
"But in the end, Aira, I'm nothing but a man yearning for his wife. My power, my money, my empire—none of it means anything without you. It never did."
A tear slid down her cheek, then another.
"I don't remember you," she whispered.
"I know."
"What if I never do?"
"Then I'll spend the rest of my life making you fall in love with me again." I picked up her boot, carefully, reverently, and began to ease it back onto her warmed foot. "I'll court you. I'll woo you. I'll sit on that bench every day until you're old and gray and finally decide I'm worth trusting."
The boot settled into place. I fastened it gently, then looked up at her again.
"But I won't stop loving you, Aira. Not ever. Not if you run from me a thousand times. Not if you throw a thousand boots at my head." A small, sad smile touched my lips. "You're my wife. You're my heart. You're my home. And I will wait forever if that's what it takes."
I rose to my feet slowly, giving her time to step back, to run, to do whatever she needed.
She didn't run.
For one breathless moment, she just stood there, looking at me with an expression I couldn't read—fear and longing and confusion and something else, something fragile and hopeful that made my chest ache.
I reached for her.
My hand hovered near her face, close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, close enough to brush the tear from her cheek.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
And then—
She wrenched away.
A broken sound escaped her—half sob, half scream—and she turned and ran. Not the controlled flight of before, but a desperate, blind panic, her boots slipping on the ice, her body disappearing into the trees.
I let her go.
I stood there in the snow, my hand still raised, reaching for a woman who wasn't there anymore.
Stefan appeared at the edge of the path, his face questioning, his hand hovering near his weapon. A single shake of my head stopped him.
She needed to run. She needed to process. She needed to fight the war between what her mind had been told and what her heart was beginning to feel.
I would wait.
I always waited.
I lowered my hand and looked up at the sky. Snow fell softly, silently, blanketing the world in white.
Run, my love, I thought. Run as far as you need. Fight as hard as you must. I'll be here when you're ready.
I'll always be here.
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