Chapter 18: A Softness Between the Storms and Night
The morning sun slipped through sheer curtains, casting warm lines across the floor and creeping up the bed where Valerie lay.
Her eyes fluttered open slowly. The pain in her shoulder had dulled to a deep ache, but it no longer throbbed. Her fever had broken.
She took in the strange room—the soft cream tones, the distant sound of waves crashing on rocks below, the scent of herbs and porridge lingering in the air.
Then she remembered.
The ambush. The river. The man who pulled her from the water…
Her hand shot to her face, fingers grazing bare skin.
Panic spiked in her chest.
She sat up too fast and winced, clutching her shoulder.
The door creaked open gently. She turned toward the sound.
King entered, carrying a warm cloth and a small bowl of ointment. He paused when he saw her awake.
"You're up."
Valerie looked at him warily.
"Hmmm."
She said, gently but firmly. "Your wounds were bad. And the fever nearly knocked you unconscious, so you still need some time in bed."
A beat of silence passed.
"Thank you," she said, her voice soft.
King nodded. He knelt beside her and picked up the bowl of ointment.
"Let me redress your wound."
She hesitated, then finally nodded.
His touch was firm but careful, as he peeled back the temporary gauze from her shoulder. The wound looked better—less inflamed, less angry.
He dabbed the ointment across the cut gently.
"You fight like a soldier," he said, almost to himself.
"I survive like one," she replied.
Their eyes met.
King didn't press further, but something shifted in his gaze—respect, perhaps, or understanding.
When he was done, he helped her sit up better with a few pillows behind her. Then he handed her a warm cup of ginger tea.
"Drink this. It'll help with the soreness."
She accepted it, her fingers brushing his. "Thank you."
King tilted his head slightly. "Hmmm."
Valerie didn't reply.
"Do you always run from the people who try to thank you?" he asked with a half-smile.
She looked down into her tea. "People don't thank me. They use me. Or fear me."
His jaw tensed at that. "I don't fear you."
"I know," she murmured. "That's the most dangerous thing about you."
He leaned back slightly, amused by her honesty.
For a moment, silence wrapped them in soft understanding.
Then she spoke again, her voice distant. "You live close to the sea?"
King stood and walked to the window, pulling it open just enough to let the salt-kissed breeze flow in. "This is where I come to disappear when the world gets too loud."
She looked at him.
"You look like a powerful man. What could possibly be too loud for you?"
He turned to her. "Memories. Regrets. Expectations."
The breeze played with the edges of her hair.
And in that quiet moment, Valerie realized something strange—this man, for all his wealth and control, was still searching for peace… just like her.
"Do you want to know my name?" she asked.
He looked at her, gaze steady.
"Yes."
She paused. "Then let me leave first."
He stared at her for a long time, then nodded.
"Fair enough."
They didn't smile. They didn't flirt.
But something warm had passed between them—a soft tether of trust, born from fevered nights and shared silence.
Outside, the world spun on. But in this seaside home tucked beneath the mountains, two people who were never meant to meet again had begun the slow unraveling of each other's walls.
---
Valerie had never planned to stay.
Not after what happened on the mountain. Not after she felt the strange warmth in her chest each time King looked at her like she wasn't broken.
But that night, as she lay on the bed, freshly bathed, dressed in a clean shirt he left for her, the silence pressed in differently.
King had returned from a call—tense from instructing Wayne to clear the perimeter, to remove the shadows lurking around his home. His instincts hadn't failed him. Someone was hunting her.
When he entered the room again, she was standing by the window, moonlight cascading down her skin like silver silk.
"Everything's safe now," he said.
She didn't answer.
She turned to him slowly, her eyes unreadable—but heavy with something he couldn't name.
She walked to him, silent.
He opened his mouth to ask if she needed anything—another bandage, water, food—but the words froze when her hand gently reached for his.
Her fingers were cold, trembling.
She stepped closer, tipping her head up, her breath brushing his collarbone.
"I don't want to be afraid anymore," she said. "I want to remember what it means to choose."
"Choose what?"
She looked into his eyes. "You."
For a heartbeat, he didn't move.
Then she kissed him.
Slowly. Softly. Not out of seduction—but surrender.
His hands hovered at her waist, unsure. His mind spun. He wasn't supposed to be able to…
But the fire in her touch answered something buried deep within him. Something he had locked away ever since he learned he might never feel this again.
He kissed her back.
And the world blurred.
---
They made love gently at first. Valerie trembled beneath his hands, and he slowed down instinctively—his protective nature overpowering any desire. When he realized she was a virgin, his movements faltered.
But she held him, guiding him to continue.
"I want it to be you," she whispered.
And he gave her that. Fully. Without walls.
King hadn't carried protection in years. There was never a need. He had accepted long ago that he might be incapable of having a child—or even of this.
But somehow… with her…
His body had answered hers.
It felt like fate was being rewritten.
They didn't stop after once. They curled into each other like fire and rain.
Twice. Then again.
Until their exhaustion swallowed them whole and they slept, limbs tangled, bodies sore and satisfied. No past. No future. Just now.
---
The Next Morning
The scent of citrus soap drifted from the bathroom. Valerie had awakened first, and the shower had turned into another moment of stolen passion—this time with less hesitation, more urgency.
She had smiled at him in the steam, her shoulder finally bandaged clean. She fed him with her fingers, laughed for the first time in what felt like years, and teased him about his serious face.
She was lighter. Softer.
And then… she was gone.
King walked into the bedroom an hour later to find the sheets cold. Her borrowed clothes folded neatly on the chair. The small porcelain teacup she used, rinsed and placed beside the sink.
And on his desk—a note in fine handwriting.
My name is Valerie.
Thank you for letting me choose.
Don't look for me.
King stood there, unmoving, for a long time.
Valerie.
She had written it herself.
He didn't crumple the note. He didn't tear it.
Instead, he sat down, laid it flat, and stared at it.
And for the first time in a long time…
King Albanian smiled.