( chapter four. . . )

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝖘𝖒𝖆𝖑𝖑 𝖍𝖔𝖚𝖗𝖘 of the evening bathed in cold, nocturnal shadow. Minute, distressed whimpers and cries pierced the dark silence of the young lord's bed chambers. Every candle and lantern stood dim, save for one that still burned lowly on the bedside table. Nicolas usually took the habit of lighting one of the several tapers to give him some anchor for reality. 'Twas a clever grace to tether him to his dwindling sanity.

Such was a routine for the man, given the horrendous turn his life had taken in the past few years. Though he finally left his youth behind in favor of adult maturity, Nicolas fell into the convoluted world of paranoia. As he grew, so did his panic. He could never find himself settled, calm with anything that came with castle life. While he was awash in luxury and privilege, to the people, nothing he ever did seemed right. Nicolas thought himself to be a resolute man, unaffected by the belittling abuse of those still endeavoring to break him down. Yet, being the constant subject of ridicule and mistreatment was bound to birth lasting adverse effects upon him. And so it had.

Although he stood seemingly strong in the face of starkly overt cruelty, Nicolas' internal defense wore down. He tried to remain the picture of resilience, but once his head met the soft, satin pillow, Nicolas found himself lost in nightmares, dancing with vicious, malignant creatures, each one tearing into his resolve and destroying him from the inside out. So, here he lay, drowning in a sea of feverish, fluid bedsheets that roped him down into the mattress. Typically knowing of what fit he would likely find himself in, Nicolas had removed his shirt from his body, and kept a dripping bucket of chilled water on the floor, along with fresh linens; such psychological battles left him delirious, parched, and shaking after his ordeal. Dousing himself with the sharp coldness worked to both cool him and clear his head of the terrible dreams. Unfortunately, this became such a routine that his suffering seemed inescapable.

All Nicolas could do was connect these experiences with the treatment he had been privy to for the last twelve years. The mere logic then morphed into a deep hate and blame of the Telmarine courtiers so potent that Nicolas reveled in it. To combat the jeers and damage he received, all the while keeping stonily silent, he cursed them. Doing such gave him a sick sense of satisfaction that soon made his days lighter. If he could do anything to lessen this abhorrence, Nicolas was quick to do whatever it took. Including partaking in darkness himself.

The warnings of using such negative means to cope fell on deaf ears; Nicolas felt it was well-deserved. Now, he would come to find that his efforts to rid himself of his demons would be dismally unsuccessful.

It was the explosion of glass shattering that fully woke him tonight. The jagged shards of the textured window split the humid air, sending the man shooting up in his bed, gasping in upset at the dark remnants of his latest torment. A small, notable commotion caused Nicolas's exhausted eyes to snap to where a small palm-sized stone clattered along the surface of the chest he kept at the foot of his bed. The object had scattered the small decorative pieces he had lying there down onto the furs covering the floor. Blearily, he saw there was a bit of parchment encasing the object, tied there by a frayed bit of straw.

Nicolas paused, shaking off the lingering ghosts creeping through his mind, giving a wary glance to the now sizable fissure in the pane. He tossed the heated bed sheets aside and crawled the little it took to take up the rock in his hands, deftly tossing it between his two palms once. The edges of the broken window were glittering in the offset lunar light. His blankets shone in the silver light and bits of glass winked and clashed musically as he sat back to let the coverings pool around his exposed torso, leaning lightly on the pillows behind. Upon reading the message on the small roll of stained parchment, his heart dropped.

You've outstayed your welcome, Narnian brute.

Nicolas's breath stilled, a vicious freeze spreading through his chest in foreboding. Choking, an odd sense of confusion and dread leaked through him. He fisted the thin material in his hand, effectively crushing the bizarre words into dust. The air suddenly dropped in the next moment, slowing as Nicolas then peered through the fissured window and watched a gleaming object flash in the moonlight. The thing sliced through the small space between him and the window. Then, it was only a split second of Nicolas diving out of the way. He felt something vaguely graze him, a bright pain painting his biceps. Nicolas looked back from where he rolled to see the sharp blade of a dagger shaking violently. Embedded deeply in the carved wooden headboard where his head had just been moments ago. Had he not dodged because of his attuned senses, he would have been dead.

Bloody hell! Nicolas trembled, effectively shaken at the rapid turn of events. His panic had birth anew as he stumbled, the parchment still in his grip now holding the weight of a hundred pounds. His arm dropped to his side, resting on the blanket. He glanced wildly down at the item, then hurled the stone away as if it had scorched him. It glanced off the cobbled wall, skidding away from view. His frame shuddered in the chill marine wind that breezed through the destroyed window, his mind reeling on in a sickening waltz.

Someone had tried to murder him! His eyes were wild and wide, and he fought to keep his fleeting breath even as his lungs collapsed with fear. As the sheer earthen-hued curtains danced in the trickling wind, Nicolas got up, all but falling into the small chaise where his sword stood, seizing it in his hands. Just as soon as his fingers met the worn, familiar leather of the sheath, his heart slowed. Already, he felt steadier.

The nimble weapon was tailor made, his treasured possession reminiscent of the one his father had gifted him on that fateful day of his adoption. He wondered briefly if he should allow Sona and Dante to know of this. Sona would die, surely, for she was immensely protective of Nicolas and his wellbeing, considering the hardships and injustices he experienced. Dante would demand the criminal revealed and would not stop until he had his revenge on the black-hearted soul. A part of Nicolas wanted to hunt him down himself, draw out the punishment, and watch gladly as the light left his eyes at his hand.

The little family had suffered upon his arrival here, although Sona and Dante had fervently told Nicolas that he was no burden to them, despite the blackness he had inadvertently caused in their lives. Blameless as he was in the eyes of his loving guardians, Nicolas couldn't help but swallow the shame that festered in his stomach; it was his fault. He had brought attention to himself and consequently his parents' quiet existence. If he had only shouldered the abuse he got, no matter how vile, no one would know that they were his caretakers. All of this came to him because, while he tried to remain silent as a boy and endure, he quickly found how easily he angered. As a result, vocal about his frustrations. On more than one occasion, he had vented and exploded under such lasting duress, becoming a spectacle and a fool.

Someone must have investigated while trying to root Nicolas out. With a stab of panic, his mind went to his parents, afraid for them and their safety. The assassin could have snuck into their family wing and made off with his parents while he slept, and then had someone on the outside come to finish him, leaving Sona and Dante dead and bleeding in their beds. No.

He rushed to the stacked wall of gray stones, lifting an innocently painted tapestry, and slid slick hands against the uneven surface to find the seam and handhold to open the door. Beyond, there was a short path, a secret hallway. Luckily, it was only a few moments before he could sprint down the timber paneled hall that connected his chambers to that of his parents.'

Out of fear of the lingering killer, Nicolas stayed in the shelter of the shadowed breezeway. He peered cautiously inside, eyeing the quiet room. He stopped, primarily hearing nothing, but then deflated at the comforting sound of Dante's peacefully slumbering snores. He then saw Sona's form turn where she slept next to him, blissfully ignorant of the attempt on her son's life. Nicolas felt his eyes close in a rush of relief. They were safe.

Still, the fresh memory of what had transpired for him set his nerves afire again. Nicolas fled back to the shelter of his room, a cloud of unease wafting thickly through the safe, private space. His spine snapped to attention, his awareness sharpened at the mere ideation that he was much too exposed here. The fiendish friend he'd discovered in his paranoia latched onto his shoulders and suddenly he felt too cold, in danger of prying eyes. He shook his head, scattering his damp curls over his heated forehead, clenching his reddened hands at his sides. The metalwork of his sword's hilt dug an ache into his palm at his tightened grip and he then went to his wardrobe in a flurry, throwing the doors open and wrenching out a clean shirt and throwing it over his shoulders. He was mildly aware he'd probably ripped the delicate material, but he cared not. He had to get away, to find her.

Her. Nicolas relished the thought of the girl. The golden memory of her eyes imploring him with such stark concern and empathy warmed the emptiness poisoning his soul. The softness of her touch on his skin secured and anchored him as he drowned in his sunless void. His movements hastened as his heart eased. Once he got to her, everything would be all right.

He snatched his cloak in his shaking hand, wishing he could hide underneath it forever. Nicolas threw it over himself, stealing away under the cover of the dark, sleeping castle. His steps echoed through the tarnished silver corridors, each turn and path seeming to elongate into eternity. Shoulders suddenly snapping him taut, he quickened his trail to escape the harrowing linger of a shadow at his back. By the time he reached the courtyard, he felt he had sprinted the journey of a thousand years, feeling ever the more like someone was just behind, ready to strike him true.

Numbly, he staggered into the warm, equine confines of the stables. Finally arriving, Nicolas paled, giving a strangled groan as succumbed to the prodding ramifications of his ordeal. Crumbling messily against the rough bundles of straw, he hardly heeded the annoying itch that came with leaning against the weight. He felt himself falling, everything slipping through his fingers as he tried to find a hold. Breathing was infernal, a chore he hated because air never could stay in his lungs. Nausea stirred his stomach, and he brought his knees up to his face, squeezing them in the vise of his arms. It was startling just how sickly nostalgic this felt.

Cattia.

Nicolas looked up as her name crossed his chaotic mind, his eyes damp and wrought with fear. He could feel her here, out of sight, as she always waited for him to come. It was the tell of his presence that made her appear, skirting the dust-ridden ground toward him as if tethered by an invisible line. At the sight of her beautiful frame, Nicolas felt his face crack, and his guard along with it.

"You're here. I was beginning to worry." The relief was a stark beam on her face, gloriously hypnotizing him. His hands burned, the desire for her touch maddening. She smiled at him, a sight that usually banished his pain, all of his strife. As quickly as it came, it disappeared under a mask of concern. His anguish only solidified. The girl took up her silken sage gown, running the length between them from the far end of the stalls. She immediately dropped in front of him, her dress pluming out around her knees like a cloud. "Oh, Nicolas."

The distraught man fell into her open arms as they embraced him tightly. In the comforting shell of her touch, he broke into an audible mess of panicked sobs. She allowed him time to unburden himself of his woe. He wanted to stay here forever with her. Away from the villainy, the danger. Everything. After several agonizing moments, Nicolas calmed, his features blushing red and mottled.

Cattia held him close, bringing her hands up around his face. His eyes followed her movements, memorizing the way she looked at him. Her eyes and how they glimmered in seamless golden disquiet; the soft suppleness of her cheeks made him ache to cradle his hand gently on her face. He let out a soft whine, his eyes then closing as he let her hands card through his curls so delicately.

"Nicolas, what happened?" she asked, her soft accent breaking the silence.

He shook his head, feeling his lip tremble. The panic and desolation burst through him once more at the sound of her voice. Akin to a stone in his throat, he swallowed it back, the force like sludge tasting bitter.

"I-I can't," he muttered roughly, his mouth going too dry. He stole a breath, letting it out convulsively through his nose. "I--"

He stuttered and leaned into her, craving her comfort like a starving man. His solace comes as Cattia, for she was the only one to eradicate his demons. The one person to cleanse him of his suffering, his agony. The one woman who could make him forget. His skin seared with violent gooseflesh, prickling down his spine as the anxiety mounted to a head. Cattia gripped him to her as his frame shook against hers, his arms winding tightly around the slippery material of her bodice.

Nicolas was certain he was frightening her as the strange brew of fear, guilt, disdain, and shame shrouded him in a blanket of monochrome. All he could see in his mind was an endless, pale sea. The aqueous torrents battered him inside a cage of warped glass, his mind throbbing and heavy. The waves wound around him, stealing his breath and his sanity, rendering him immobile. Everything swam together into a misty, incoherent blur, impossible to decipher. He was losing his mind, surely. He gripped Cattia closer, longing for her light.

Cattia hushed him, and he was obscurely aware of the way he was crying full, pathetic moans. How miserable, a man losing himself among the horses! He was weak, scrubbed inhumanly raw, immeasurably alone in shadow and conflict.

"It's okay, now. I'm here," she whispered, holding him as he fell to destruction. She pressed her lips softly to his frazzled sandy curls. "You're safe."

This made the young man stop, leaning back to see her. Something deeply pained him, thickening in his chest. His eyes widened, red and weeping, to study her.

"Am I?" he whispered thickly. The man felt surrounded by a mass of furious hornets, fear stark and unshakable as it spread like a fire through his chest. Nicolas found it cutting deep into his throat, impossible to swallow, choking him in its black talons. His somber expression rippled as he shut his mouth against the coming torrent of despair. The waves pressed and pressed, threatening to break.

"You are. You're not alone here, Nicolas. I'll help you! It's going to be all right--"

Cattia reached for him, her fingers inches from his face. He caught them in swift fingers, holding her outstretched hand as he shook his head, his teeth sinking with a savage pressure into his lower lip. He couldn't breathe again, the air abruptly too tight in his lungs. His stomach twisted at the sight of her, helpless. The urge to run made him itch to take her away with him. Spirit into the night with no regret, away from the poison leeching indefinitely into him. Nicolas felt something, he felt it there. A writhing monster, breaking at its cage, threatening to burst forth and overtake him. Even now, he felt himself gravitating to the sultry wickedness; his stomach wound itself tighter. He felt suddenly nauseous.

He forced himself to turn away, bracing himself against the gate of one of the sleeping horses. His head swam with vertigo and distress, a toiling sea of warfare. As his grip tightened on the carved wood of the stall, all Nicolas could see was red. He couldn't be angry at Cattia now. Never at her; at himself. It wasn't her fault.

His right hand rifled shakily through his hair, pulling at the ends. He let out a strained groan; the sound vibrating deep in his chest. How could she ever understand this? He had worked so tirelessly to not let this, his suffering, taint what goodness they had together. He looked back at her helplessly, crouched in the hay, staring wide-eyed at him. Nicolas feared he could not shield her from this any longer. She must know.

"Cat, someone tried to kill me tonight! How could that be all right?"

Nicolas heard a small gasp, and he deflated, turning completely to face her before beginning to pace in agitation. Her face puckered with questions and he spurred into it, laying it all before her. Releasing the dam, the truth explodes through into the light.

"You don't know what it's been like. How could you?" he exclaimed. "I've been here, a prisoner, for twelve years. I don't belong here, and I never did." Nicolas was heaving, his breath short and small as he fell at the mercy of his tirade. His mind buzzed relentlessly, his thoughts reeling. "I'm a Narnian, Cattia. I'm in a place where that is not a pretty thing to be..." Nicolas stammered, his sorrow building heavily on his tongue. His mind prickled with dark images, unrelenting. "It's getting worse--"

As he let out a sob, he felt so incredibly weak. A slave to continual persecution, and left battered and raw. At his wit's end, worn thin and utterly broken. Nicolas pressed his fingers hard against his temples, his blood hot and throbbing against them as he tried to deflect the undulating shroud in his mind. He collapsed hard on his knees, dropping his head forlornly into his hands.

The heartbreaking sight brought Cattia crawling over to embrace him to her heart tightly. She bit hard into her lower lip, feeling him tremble.

"Tell me," she breathed, her voice barely severing the coarse hum singing through Nicolas's ears. It was too loud, much too loud!

His sobs stifled a little at the soft anchor of her hand placed steadily on the back of his neck. He shuddered as he collected himself to speak. However little he could. "I can feel them getting to me. Everyone's words, everything they do to me; it hurts, Cat. I can't take it anymore--"

He cried into her shoulder; Cattia felt her eyes burn with tears, a few trickling out over her cheeks as she pulled him up into her arms, where he gripped her in a desperate vise.

"Shh," she soothed quietly.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he whispered roughly. He sniffed, pulling back finally to look at her in the gloom. The lantern lights flickered over Cattia's ethereal form, appearing so wrenchingly beautiful that Nicolas' chest ached. "I can't sleep; every day is a chore to complete. I've been having dreams," he said. Flashes of his demons reared their malicious heads, reaching to take him in dripping, heinous claws.

"Dreams?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. She ventured a swift thumb under his eyes, clearing the tears away. Her ministrations liquified his bones and softened his defenses; he craved her, wanted her to touch him forever. Anything to take away the pain. "About what?"

"I'm lost in shadow. I never know where I'm going or which way is out. There is always something just behind, continuously rumbling. So loud--" Nicolas shuddered, rattled, and convulsive. "So loud, I feel it in my bones. Around me, it's so impossibly cold and dark; my skin freezes completely solid. I'm trapped in this sand, too thick to move through."

His gaze became aimless, staring blindly just over Cattia's shoulder. His glittering green eyes were wide, and utterly afraid.

He seems to pale, his skin glazed by a feverish sheen. It is a moment before he dares to continue. Nicolas swallowed dryly, the stone of despair in his throat only growing heavier. His body vibrates with angry nerves, frayed and destroyed, sparking like fire. In this moment, the man is teetering on the edge of shadow and light, balancing in a strange, uneasy abeyance. The slow weight of a hand comes to him, and he finds Cattia touching his cheek, thawing him. He blinks, gaining his bearings again. When he looks at her, she smiles gently.

"And?" she prodded cautiously. Her eyes follow him as he looks away, tense.

He lets out a breath after a moment, a shaking tendril of fear. "There's nothing there-absolute darkness. I'm alone, exposed. Afraid. Enduring these monsters. Every night, they find me and leave me in rivets. It's all too real. I never know whether I'm awake or dreaming! It's blurring together so vividly! "

The breath in his lungs disappeared, bringing about a life replaying of his terrors painted darkly in his mind's eye. The glow of Cattia before him swam in a warped sheen, obscuring his view of her all too quickly. He warred with not wanting to speak of his fears, but all the while wanting to release them. Blindly lost in a haze, his hand shot out in the shadows to grip her hand. He pulls her fingers away from his face, kneading her hand in the shelter of his as he studies her expression. Memorizing her, the concern in her glittering eyes, her light making his heart ache in his broken chest.

He bit hard into his lower lip, looking down for a fleeting moment at their hands, roped together in an anchoring embrace. She cared for him. In no way, not even his dear mother, anyone could. The girl held a steadfast compassion for her friends and he was privileged to witness this level of empathy that she reserved for him alone. A bright surge of comfort came from that, blooming from the weight of their wrapped hands, traveling until the light found home in his weary heart.

"Nicolas," Cattia breathed, her eyes remaining on his fingers around hers. For a moment, she stared, then allowing her eyes to lift and rest on his forlorn expression, shadowed densely in a marriage of darkness and the silver moonlight. "You are not alone here. Look at me."

He did, the sage emeralds in his eyes glossed with unshed tears. Nicolas's body was buzzing again with panic, bringing his grip tight around the girl's soft hands before he surely drifted away. As he found her face, his breath stilled, the sleepy ambiance of the horses falling away until only she remained; for the girl had leaned closer, everything within her luminance begging him to hear her. The slight scent of her skin reminded him of the marine salt wind, wrapped in an earthy undertone of pine and orchid. The essence of her made him gravitate forward, closing the already small distance held between them.

"You must not give up on yourself. So many people care for you," she whispered. Her eyes moved slowly over his face, studying every plane, every expanse of his heated, tear-stained skin. In truth, it destroyed her to see her friend suffer so deeply, for it completely severed her heart to witness. She may not have known him for long, but she understood the toll words, especially ones so cold and bitter, have taken on the young man. She could not let him lose himself, not this way. In Nicolas's barren, torn mind, he amounted to nothing. To Cattia, however, he was everything.

She hoped he could understand what she was trying so gently to convey. She cared for him. Perhaps more than she dared, but she did. Cattia would not deny it, not in the face of these adversaries. He brought light to her, a stranger just like him, in a foreign land. The girl truly belonged nowhere. She had a dubious purpose-what was she made for? Nothing seemed clear. Amid her questions, she found Nicolas. A boy who, while suffering, appeared similar to herself-an outsider. Over the years, they forged a bond based on mutual understanding. Through being different, the pair navigates these demons together and becomes a saving grace to one another. As time passed, began as a friendship, and now, the connection was going to grow into something more.

Or perhaps she was imagining things.

Imagined how being without him pained her soul, and left her in pieces. How nothing felt right unless he was there to hold her. His soft words were a tonic, healing her hurt in ways no one ever could. How she dreamed and yearned for his presence when he was not around; how he encompassed her every thought and lived so beautifully in her dreams.

It was not a love reciprocated. Aslan was surely not that kind. A seed of doubt birthed in her chest-he couldn't care for her. It was an outlandish, childish notion. Foolhardy.

However, as she studied him, she thought she could see a spark inside those charming, verdant eyes of his. They glimmered in a hope that made her stomach turn pleasantly on itself. The depths widened, a pair of bright, tearful gems as his face smoothed over in what she hoped was awe. And then, too quickly, they darkened to the most depleted obsidian that made it all crack and shatter to the wind.

"Who could care for someone like me?" He asked bitterly, his tone dropping low and thick with remorse. Nicolas let his gaze fall, not daring to look her in the eye any longer. How dare she say these things? They could not be true!

Something within Cattia snapped with the next words that left her lips. Blindly, she stated, "I do. I always have."

Nicolas froze, unable to discern whether he had heard her right. Of course, the girl cared for him. They were friends, but in her words tonight, the tone in her voice held an allure. A sliver of desire left unspoken. Surely, he was tired and rattled by the events tonight. Perhaps he was still asleep; he held back the urge to pinch himself.

"Yes," Nicolas agreed. "I know." Inside, his heart ran unevenly, giving way to a pleasant blanket of gooseflesh erupting under his loose shirt and heavy cloak. He couldn't give too much to this, and wouldn't let himself hope for something as small as her shared affections. The man did not deserve such a gift.

Cattia emitted a little giggle, a soft sound that sent Nicolas' skin bursting into flame. He wanted to hear more. She was shaking her head and smiled, hearing his conclusive tone. She hoped to be subtle with her explanation. Perhaps his mind fogged from such prolonged hardship that her meaning was left beyond his comprehension.

"Nicolas," she tried again, graciously. Nicolas peered at her deeply now, at the shift of her voice around his name. Hearing her speak his name, only his, sparked something warm in his stomach. He prayed she say it again, a hundred times more. Vaguely, she could feel her hand leave his grip, now moving slowly up his forearm and resting there as a solid weight that burned him in the best way he could fathom. "I do care for you, do not misunderstand," she said, pausing once to drink in the way his expression froze, his eyes now stitched into her face. She took another breath, steadying the roughened pace her heart had taken. "But, i-it's much more than that. It pains me when you are not near-I think about you, day and night... My days are brighter when I know can see you in these hours, alone with no one to find us."

The world stilled and Nicolas could not tear his eyes away from her, his form frozen as he noticed her hand on his arm. All he could feel, hear, and see was Cattia. His mind clarified, his heart beating from behind his sternum so wildly that he feared it may well burst completely from its confines. Her touch birthed a trail of fire and his hands itched to take hold of her now, but all he wanted was to listen to the glorious words slipping from her supple, smooth lips.

"I need these moments with you. You are the only person that makes me feel whole again--"

Excitement sang under his skin and Nicolas shifted ever closer. He raised an eyebrow, hoping against hope that she did not mean to say what he thought she was. He had to ask as his heart skipped a beat. "What are you saying, Cattia?"

"I-I..." She stopped, suddenly caving in on herself, uncertain. Her face fell, her eyes on the open space his shirt gave to reveal the pearlescence of his strong chest. It took everything within him not to turn her face up, his fingertips pressing gently into the underside of her chin. "I'm sorry, it's foolish."

Her doubt enlivened him to reach for her. With tender fingers, he indeed lifted her chin, turning her face up to his. The enrapturing scent of orchids surrounded him now as he dared move closer. Mere inches separated them now. He could hear the catch in her breath in her throat as he watched his eyes; feel how his heart screamed for her, his pulse racing in the column of his throat.

"It's far from foolish," he whispered, his words ghosting over her face, her golden eyes like starlight as she watched him. Her skin chilled, and she shivered, focusing on the minute weight of his fingertips pressing softly into her skin. The pressure spread warmly through her shaken bones, threading into her blood, and started her heart at an eager gallop. A small part of her, however, prayed she wasn't about to make a mistake.

The song of her words played musically in Nicolas' mind, a sweet reprieve from his wounds. With as close as he was to falling from the precipice, he paused, waiting for her word. The single assurance that he could take a step further into the oblivion she tempted him with.

"I do not wish to ruin what we have between us," Cattia murmured. She could feel the embrace of his lips beckoning her so close, she dared to brush her lips against his. The delicate collision set her mouth off in a flurry of explosions, thousands of colors bursting through her skin. Still, the moment was as charged with desire as it was with caution. Neither wanted to overstep without permission, to shatter this intimate shelter they'd found home inside.

Nicolas, still holding temperately to her face, ventured a whisper of a kiss, a small taste that shook her resolve. Every rational thought scattered at the mercy of what her heart most desired-him. Her eyes fluttered closed. "There is nothing to ruin, Cattia," he said, his voice overcome in a hoarse, fond whisper.

Cattia opened her eyes again, bewildered at Nicolas's words. Was he affirming her wishes? As she studied him, searching then for cracks in his handsome expression, she found none. A smile split softly over her features, relief like that of a cool stream washing through her skin. Nicolas inclined his head toward her, his grin adding to the perfected mosaic of his enchanted countenance.

"In truth, I would very much like to kiss you." Nicolas dared slide his hand from Cattia's chin to her cheek, delicately running the pad of his thumb over the plumpness of her open and waiting lips. "You need only say the word," he murmured gently, watching her through wide, amorous eyes.

The answer stood obvious. Cattia was dizzy with longing for him. Whether it was from the late hour, the story of what transpired for him, or the result of their unshakable bond, she cared not. All she cared for was Nicolas and she would be a fool not to admit that she yearned for him to hold her, touch her like this. He deserved to forget, to get lost in a world different from those of his horrors. For too long she had harbored these deep stirrings, afraid he may not feel the same. To take a risk and let what they had implode was her worst nightmare, so she had fervently let her feelings remain unspoken. Although, now, through Aslan's divine grace, she faced this chance. Who was she if she did not take it?

"Yes."

In a rush, Nicolas surged forward, connecting their lips in an instant. The force knocked the breath from her lungs, already constricted from the anticipation. Her mind reeled in an affectionate haze. She returned his fervor, falling into him as she reached for the back of his neck and tangled her ringed fingers in his caramel curls. His hair was deliciously soft as she held fast to the strands, wanting to disappear into his touch. The comforting scent of horses and hay caressed her, followed by an undercurrent of parchment and cotton. Her free hand grappled in the soft, airy fabric of his shirt, her fingers caught in the thin tie holding his collar together. She gripped it like a lifeline, feeling him everywhere all at once, set in an impassioned wildfire.

Nicolas swam in a haze, knowing nothing but the taste of her lips, the faint though tantalizing mint left on her tongue. His searching hands gently bunched into the base of her silken corset, slipping against the smooth fabric as he held her tight against his chest. The man could not get close enough to her as his skin sang under her earnest touch. He kissed her intensely, transferring his burdens, his shadows, his desolation to her. He was left hungering for a remedy only she could provide. Nicolas hadn't known how deeply he needed Cattia until this moment.

Here now, Cattia gave him peace that cured every flaw and banished every demon. She freed him from his chains, allowing him to live again in this small expanse of euphoria. They were two sides of the same coin, marrying darkness and purity. He could not exist without her, could not live without her. Not even the stars nor the moon itself could deny such a truth. Nicolas Davenwood then vowed, as they collided in a frenzy of beautiful disaster, that he would never let her go.

NOTE: I know it's been forever... I've been stuck in such a writing slump, I can't even begin to tell you! BUT, I'm still here with a new, yet very long, update! I refuse to let this story die. I think only one more chapter is required for this part before we get to the good stuff, wee!

I hope you liked it and thank you so much for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts! See you soon :)