*Evar's POV*
The night was deep and restless. The echoes of Aiden's memorial lingered in my mind as I tossed and turned, unable to find sleep. Nemesia's words, her tribute, felt like shards of glass grinding in my chest.
Frustrated and needing an outlet, I slipped out of the tent, transforming into my wolf form and taking to the woods. The cool night air rushed past, the freedom of the run a temporary balm to my troubled thoughts.
Ragnar, ever-present, his thoughts a mixture of concern and reassurance.
"She do what she must do, Evar. She try to survive." As always such a great speaker...
I knew he was right, but that knowledge didn't ease the ache. As dawn approached, I returned to camp, my body weary but my mind no less unsettled.
Deciding on a change, I sought out one of the rebels known for his grooming skills.
"Think you could tidy up this mess?" I joked lightly, gesturing to my unruly hair and beard.
With skilled hands, he trimmed and shaped, transforming my rough exterior into something resembling the man I used to be—a man who perhaps could still find hope amidst the darkness.
Dressed in fresh clothes, cleaner and more composed, I caught a glimpse of myself in a small mirror. The man staring back was a stranger in some ways, but one I needed to be. Especially if I really wanted to do my best... to reach Nemesia.
*Nemesia's POV*
Later that day, I saw him. Evar, refreshed and strangely different. The beard was gone, leaving a sharp jawline with very short hair, that framed his face with a rugged yet refined look. His hair, neatly trimmed and pulled back into a loose tail, added to the transformation, making him appear younger, more vital.
Our eyes met across the camp, and something in my chest tightened. He approached, a half-smile playing on his lips.
"Thought I'd clean up a bit. For morale, you know?"
I nodded, my throat suddenly dry.
"It looks good. Really good." I didn't mean to sound so... eager and awe-struck.
The air between us crackled, charged with an energy I wasn't ready to define.
"About tonight," he began, his voice lower, "I thought maybe we could share a drink. Celebrate the mission's success?"
The invitation hung between us, heavy and tempting, just like his voice that made me shiver.
"Yes, I'd like that," I managed, surprised at my own eagerness, my agreement making that smirk I knew so well, appear on his mouth. Now I could see it in full display without that beard.
"Then see you tonight," he winked and left.
As he walked away, his new appearance etched into my mind, I felt a pull, a desire that was both thrilling and terrifying. Tonight, I knew, would be a test of many things—of wills, of hearts, perhaps of secrets too.
The day passed in a blur of activity, but as evening fell, the promise of what was to come loomed large, casting long shadows over everything else.
*Evar's POV*
"We did it..." I said to Ragnar in my thoughts.
"Good. Now you make good foody. Good foody best for heart".
"Where do you get those texts really?" I sighed but knew I had to prepare. A lot...
*Nemesia's POV*
As twilight bled into the darkness of night, the air grew chill, brushing against my skin as I made my way to Evar's tent. The camp was quiet, most of the rebels retreating to their quarters, leaving a haunting stillness that matched the tumult inside me.
Evar had set up inside his tent—a small, intimate space with a couple of chairs and a makeshift table illuminated by a single, flickering lantern. The gentle light cast shadows that danced around us, creating an atmosphere that was both comforting and slightly unnerving.
He stood as I approached, the simple gesture setting off a flutter in my stomach that I quickly suppressed.
"You came," he noted, his voice smooth, a soft smile playing on his lips.
"Of course," I responded, forcing a lightness I didn't feel, stepping into the circle of light, as the tent's material door closed behind me, leaving us alone. The sight of him, so changed yet familiar, sent a ripple of something I couldn't quite name through me.
Evar motioned to a chair, and I took a seat, watching as he poured two glasses of a dark, amber liquid.
"Found this in the last supply run. Thought we might put it to good use tonight," he explained, handing me a glass.
The liquor was strong, its warmth spreading through me, loosening the tightness I hadn't realized I was holding. We clinked glasses, a soft chime in the quiet night.
"To success," he toasted.
"And revenge," I added, our eyes locking over the rim of our glasses.
We sipped in silence for a moment, the alcohol smoothing the edges of the day. Evar broke the quiet, his voice thoughtful.
"You did well today, with the memorial. It meant a lot to them."
I shifted uncomfortably, the praise a stark reminder of the truth he didn't know.
"It was the least I could do."
He studied me for a moment, then set his glass down, leaning forward slightly.
"Nemesia, can I ask you something?"
The seriousness in his tone made me pause, and I nodded, apprehensive.
"Why do you keep everyone at arm's length? You could have so much more here... with these people, with—"
"Because it's safer. I trusted someone once, and look where I'm now," I cut him off, more sharply than I intended. My defences rose instinctively.
Evar frowned, a pained expression crossing his features.
"Is it safer? Or are you just more afraid of what happens if you let someone in? You're going to give up after getting burnt once?"
His question stung, a too-accurate arrow aimed right at the heart of my fears. I looked away, taking a deep breath, feeling the warmth from the drink and his proximity battling the chill of the night.
"You don't understand," I murmured, but even as I said it, I knew he did. More than I wanted him to.
There was a long pause, the air thick with unspoken words. Finally, Evar reached out, his hand brushing mine. The contact was electric, a jolt that I felt all the way to my core.
"I want to understand," he said softly. "Let me in, Nem."
I hesitated his use of the nickname—so familiar and intimate—a contrast to the distance I usually kept. His gaze was earnest, his hand warm against mine.
The part of me that I'd buried deep—the part that wanted to connect, to trust, to feel—whispered that maybe, just maybe, it was worth the risk. But the walls I'd built were high, fortified by the betrayal and pain caused by Marco.
I pulled my hand back slowly, the air cooling immediately between us.
"I can't," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "It's not just my life at stake."
Evar sat back, the rejection clear, his jaw tightening as he nodded slowly.
"I understand," he said, though his eyes told me he was hurt.
"If you ever decide you don't want to run away but fight for achieving some happiness, and not just rotting in revenge and pain... let me know," he whispered as if yo himself.
It hurt. But I deserved it... I'm an adult woman and I knew what Evar tried to achieve today. I understood... and part of me wished he could do it. But the other part of me was still afraid. I knew Marco for most of my life, he was my fated mate... and he betrayed me. So what would stop Evar, a rouge I've barely known... from doing the same?
We sat there for a long while, the night deepening around us, sharing the bottle but little else, each lost in our own thoughts. The gap between us felt wider than ever, yet part of me ached to bridge it, to reach across the void and grasp what he offered.
But some scars ran too deep, some walls too thick to tear down, even by someone as determined as Evar.
As the night wore on, and the bottle emptied, we said goodnight—a simple word that carried the weight of all we didn't, couldn't say. I returned to my tent alone, the chill of the night a cloak I wrapped around myself, a shield against the warmth I feared more than the cold.
And as I lay in the dark, the echoes of what might have been whispered like ghosts around the edges of my consciousness, haunting the spaces where warmth had briefly, tantalizingly, flickered. The faint memory of the warmth on my skin where Evar sometimes touched me... lulled me into sleep.