Chapter 282: All the love 1

MARGAUX

I moved from the bed with a deliberation that felt borrowed from somewhere outside myself, my limbs heavy and my fingers numb as I gathered my clothes from the floor. The fabric was wrinkled, still warm from where we had tossed it aside in our urgency, and I shook out each piece before putting it on with mechanical precision. The shirt slid over my shoulders. The pants buttoned at my waist. I pulled my hair back into a loose knot at the nape of my neck, securing it with a tie I found on the dresser, not caring how it looked, only that it was out of my face.

Then I turned back to him.

Étienne lay still against the pillows, his face turned slightly toward the window where the afternoon light caught the planes of his cheekbones and made him look carved from marble. I pulled the sheet up to his chin, tucking it carefully around his shoulders, arranging his arms so they rested naturally at his sides. I fluffed the pillow beneath his head and smoothed the hair back from his forehead. He looked like he was sleeping. He looked like he might wake up at any moment and ask me why I was staring at him with such intensity.

I stood there for a moment, my hand hovering over his chest, watching the small yet steady rise and fall of his chest.

The door was still slightly ajar from when he had entered earlier, and through the gap I could see the hallway, dimly lit by the sun’s rays. An Omega stood posted near the stairs, her hands clasped in front of her white apron as she stared at the floor with the practiced air of someone trying very hard not to overhear what had transpired in this room.

I stepped into the hallway. My footsteps were silent on the carpet runner, but she looked up immediately, her eyes widening when she saw me.

"Could you fetch me Beta Laurent," I instructed, my voice steady and low. "Tell him I request his presence immediately."

She hesitated, her gaze flicking toward the bedroom door behind me, then back to my face. Something in my expression must have convinced her, because she nodded sharply and turned on her heel, her soft shoes padding quickly down the corridor until she disappeared around the corner.

I returned to the room and began to pack.

There was not much to gather. A few changes of clothes folded into a leather satchel I found in the wardrobe. The small jewelry box that had been given to me on our wedding night, which I emptied into a pouch and tucked into my pocket. I moved through the room with an efficiency that belied the hollowness in my chest, picking up objects and deciding whether they were necessary or merely sentimental, discarding most for speed.

From the desk near the window, I took a sheet of stationery and a pen. The ink flowed smoothly across the page as I wrote, my hand cramping slightly as I filled the space with words I needed him to understand but would never hear me speak aloud. I apologized for the violence of my love. I explained about the thread turning gold, about the certainty that had settled in my bones like frost, about the war marching toward our gates and the choice I had made to keep him safe from it. I told him I hoped he could forgive me, though I did not expect it. I told him I would find a way to fix this, to change the fate written for us, even if it meant tearing apart the world to do it.

I folded the paper into thirds and waited for Laurent to arrive.

The knock at the door came sooner than I expected, sharp and insistent.

"Enter," I called, not turning around.

The door opened, and I heard Laurent step inside, his boots heavy against the floorboards. I could smell him before I saw him. He smelled a lot like leather and wolfsbane, surprisingly, which told me he had been deep in war preparations before he rushed over.

"You asked for me," he announced, his voice rough with sleep or worry. "What’s happened? Is it the coalition? Has there been word from your father or what?"

I turned to face him. He stood just inside the doorway, his shirt untucked and his hair mussed, looking like he had thrown on this simple cloth in place of what he was wearing before in a hurry. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the packed bag on the bed, the letter in my hand, and finally, inevitably, the figure lying still beneath the sheets.

"I need a car," I told him, my voice flat and even. "Something fast and discreet. I need to leave for Beaumont within the hour."

Laurent blinked, confusion clouding his features. "Beaumont? Margaux, what are you talking about? Your father is thinking of marching an army toward us. You can’t go back there now. It would be suicide."

"I know exactly what I’m doing," I replied, stepping closer to him. "I need the car, Laurent. And I need your silence until I’m gone or until Étienne knows."

He shook his head, his hands coming up in a gesture of helpless frustration. "This is insane. Étienne would never allow this. Where is he? Does he know you’re planning to run back to the people who want to destroy us?"

"He knows." It was a half-lie, so technically the truth, but the word tasted like ash on my tongue.

Laurent’s eyes narrowed. He looked past me, toward the bed, and I watched the moment comprehension began to dawn on him. His gaze fixed on Étienne’s chest, and the first thing he looked for was the rise and fall of breathing, and when he found some, his pale face softened.

"No," he whispered.

He pushed past me, his shoulder knocking against mine as he strode to the bedside. He reached out with trembling fingers, pressing them against Étienne’s throat where the pulse would be beating strong and steady. His hand lingered there for a long moment, his own breathing growing ragged and loud in the quiet room.

"Margaux," Laurent muttered, his voice breaking. He pulled his hand back and stared at it as if it had betrayed him. "What did you do?"

I stood my ground, my chin lifted, my hands clasped loosely in front of me. "What I had to do."

Laurent spun around, his eyes wild and red-rimmed. "What you had to do? What you had to do?" He took a step toward me, his fists clenched at his sides. "He’s fucking unconscious."

"I know," I answered, and my voice did not waver.

"You know?" He laughed, a harsh, broken sound that scratched at my ears. "You know? What the hell happened here? Did you... want to hurt him?"

"No," I admitted, and the word settled between us like a stone dropped into deep water. "I did this to protect him."

Laurent stared at me, his mouth opening and closing as he struggled to process what I was telling him. He looked from me to Étienne and back again, his expression cycling through shock, grief, and a rising fury that turned his cheeks blotchy and red.

"How..." he demanded, his voice rising to a shout that he quickly swallowed, remembering the walls had ears. He lowered his tone to a vicious whisper. "Why?"

"Because he would never have let me leave otherwise," I explained, my tone reasonable, patient, as if I were speaking to a child. "Because he would have tied me to this room, to this pack, to this war that is coming for him specifically. Because I needed to go, and he would have stopped me."

Laurent ran his hands through his hair, gripping the strands hard enough that I could see his knuckles turning white. "So this is your solution? Get him in this state and flee to Beaumont. You think this is going to save him or you or anyone from anything that is coming?"

"I know it will," I insisted, stepping toward him. "You did not know what I saw. His fate has changed. Do you understand what that means? It means death. It means one of us dies violently, soon, and I couldn’t let that be him. I couldn’t let him march out to face my father’s army and die on some battlefield with my name on his lips. This was the only way to keep him safe. To keep him here, unchanging, until I can fix what is broken."

"If one of you dies first... what does that even mean? Valcourt can take on Beaumont. Some allies could cause us a bit of trouble, but we will persevere. Doing this... and having the idea that we will lose... it sounds insane," Laurent breathed, but there was less certainty in his voice now, a crack in his conviction.