He stumbled into the house, his shirt clinging to his body, soaked with blood—some of it his, some of it not. His lips were swollen and split, the sharp sting of fresh wounds barely registering through the deeper ache settling into his bones. A dark bruise was already forming beneath his eye, spreading like ink beneath his skin. Every breath felt like a struggle, his ribs protesting with each shallow inhale, but none of it compared to the dread curling in his stomach. He didn't want to wake her.
His hand fumbled for the door, but exhaustion and pain made his movements clumsy, and he knocked it against the frame with a loud thud. He cursed under his breath, but it was too late.
From the bedroom, Luna stirred. She blinked in the dim light, her sleep-heavy mind struggling to piece together the sudden noise. Instinct kicked in before thought—her fingers curled around her wand as she sat up, her heart hammering. The shadows stretched long across the walls, shifting with the moonlight, making everything feel unfamiliar. Then she heard it—his uneven breathing, rough and labored, the unmistakable sound of someone in pain.
Her heart clenched. "Theo?"
She didn't wait for an answer. The blankets were forgotten as she pushed herself out of bed, her bare feet silent against the wooden floors as she rushed toward the hallway.
And then she saw him.
Her breath caught in her throat. Blood. So much blood. His white shirt was stained crimson, his face a mess of cuts and bruises. He was barely standing, leaning against the wall as if it was the only thing keeping him upright.
"Merlin," she gasped, her voice breaking as she reached for him. "Theo, what happened?"
He barely lifted his head. "It's nothing," he muttered, his voice hoarse, strained. "Nothing you need to worry about."
Luna froze, her hands trembling, rage flaring like a lit match. She had heard those words too many times before. Each time he had come home like this—battered, bleeding, broken—he had said the same damn thing, expecting her to just accept it.
Not tonight.
"Stop it." Her voice was sharp, cutting through the thick silence between them. "I've had enough of this, Theo."
He tried to wave her off, his movements sluggish. "Luna—"
"NO." Her voice cracked as she stepped closer, her breath unsteady. "No more excuses. No more lies. No more pretending that this is normal!" Her chest heaved, fury and heartbreak tightening around her like a vice. "You come home like this, night after night, and I'm just supposed to act like everything's fine? Like I don't see you falling apart in front of me?" She shook her head, the weight of everything pressing down on her. "I CAN'T EVEN LOOK AT YOU."
Theo flinched. The words hit harder than any punch he had taken that night. He could handle pain, could endure it, could breathe through it. But this—this felt like drowning.
"Luna, please—" His voice was desperate now, but she didn't let him finish.
"Who was it?" Her hands curled into fists at her sides, her body trembling with the force of her emotions. "Who did this to you? Or did you do it to yourself?"
Silence.
His jaw clenched, guilt flashing in his dark eyes.
She let out a bitter, breathless laugh. "Of course. You can't even tell me. You won't even give me that."
He wanted to. He wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to drop to his knees and confess every dark, violent thing he had done in the name of protecting their family. But how could he? How could he look into her eyes, full of love and disappointment, and tell her the truth? That this was his world, that he would always come home bloodied and bruised, that no matter how much she wanted him to change, this was who he was.
She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "Go," she whispered, her voice thick with something that sounded too much like defeat. "Go to another bedroom. I can't do this tonight."
Theo's stomach twisted painfully. His instinct was to reach for her, to beg her to let him stay, to tell her he'd fix this, that he'd fix himself. But the look in her eyes made him stop. It was too raw, too full of something dangerously close to breaking.
He swallowed the lump in his throat, nodding once.
Without another word, he turned and walked down the hallway, his body heavy, his wounds forgotten in the face of something that hurt far worse.
For the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if he could take the pain.
He stood in front of the mirror, gripping the edges of the sink as water dripped from his face, blurring his reflection. The fluorescent light above cast a harsh glow over his battered skin, illuminating every cut, every bruise, every failure. His hands trembled slightly as he splashed more cold water onto his busted lip, the sharp sting a cruel reminder of the night's events. He had lost track of how many times he had come home like this—how many times he had stood in this very spot, trying to wash away the evidence, as if water alone could cleanse him of the choices that had led him here.
But this time, he wasn't alone.
Even without turning, he felt her. Her presence was unmistakable, a weight pressing into the silence of the room. She hadn't made a sound, but she was there, just behind him, watching. He squeezed his eyes shut, his stomach twisting with guilt.
"We'll talk about this tomorrow, Luna," he murmured, his voice rough with exhaustion. "Just let me clean up."
He still couldn't look at her, couldn't bear to meet her gaze in the mirror. He didn't want to see the disappointment etched into her face, didn't want to acknowledge the hurt he had caused by coming home like this again.
But she didn't answer. She didn't leave.
"Please go," he whispered, barely more than a breath, his fingers tightening against the porcelain. If she stayed, if she saw him like this—truly saw him—he wasn't sure he could handle it.
But instead of leaving, she stepped closer. He could hear the soft whisper of her footsteps against the tiled floor, could feel the warmth of her body just behind him. A moment later, her hand was on his shoulder, grounding him in a way that made his chest ache. He inhaled sharply, but before he could protest, she gently turned him toward her.
His resistance crumbled the second he met her gaze.
Her palm cupped his cheek, warm, steady, unbearably tender. His breath stilled. He hadn't realized how cold he had felt until that moment. Without thinking, he leaned into her touch, his eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as he let himself sink into her warmth.
Her expression was unreadable, a storm of emotions swirling in her silver-blue eyes. Anger. Sadness. Love. He couldn't tell which was strongest, and maybe it didn't matter. All he knew was that she was still here. That despite everything, she was still touching him like he hadn't shattered something between them.
Then, without a word, she raised her free hand, and a soft pulse of magic sparked between them. Warmth spread through him as the split in his lip sealed itself, the raw sting fading into nothing. He winced instinctively, but the pain was gone almost as quickly as it came. Her magic always felt different from his own—lighter, softer, filled with something unnameable.
He swallowed hard, about to thank her, about to say something—anything—but before he could, she leaned in.
Her lips met his, slow and deliberate, a whisper of warmth against his own. The taste of blood still lingered between them, metallic and sharp, but neither of them pulled away.
She ran her fingers lightly over his face, tracing the bruises, the split skin, the unspoken regrets that clung to him like a second shadow. Her touch was featherlight, yet he felt it like a brand, burning through his carefully constructed defenses. Then, without a word, she stepped back, her expression unreadable as she raised her wand. A whisper of magic filled the air, and the diagnostic spell flared to life, illuminating his injuries in soft, glowing lines.
Her jaw tightened. A fractured rib. A broken nose. Gods, Theo.
"Sit," she said, her voice calm but unyielding. It wasn't a request.
He obeyed without hesitation, sinking onto the edge of the bed. He didn't take his eyes off her, watching as she moved with practiced precision. There was no trace of the fury she had unleashed on him earlier—no screaming, no accusations—just a quiet, focused determination. This was the Luna he knew, the Luna who anchored him when the world became too heavy, the Luna who stitched him back together, no matter how many times he unraveled.
"I'm going to heal you now," she murmured, rolling up the sleeves of her nightgown, her wand poised between them. "But it's going to hurt."
He nodded, gripping the sheets, bracing for the impact.
The spell hit his nose first, snapping the broken bone back into place with a sharp, visceral crack. White-hot pain seared through him, and he sucked in a breath, his vision momentarily swimming. Then came his rib—a dull, sickening thud as the fracture knitted itself back together. His body seized, his fingers digging into the mattress until his knuckles turned bone-white, but he made no sound.
It was over in seconds, but the pain lingered, curling around the edges of his ribs like an aftershock. He exhaled slowly, forcing his body to relax.
When he finally looked up, she was already stepping back, her wand lowering to her side. But there was something different now, something heavier in the way she held herself. He had expected her to yell, to demand answers, to rage at him for the way he had come home to her—broken, bloody, haunted. He was ready for it. He wanted it. But she didn't.
Instead, she turned away.
He watched, helpless, as she walked toward the door, her movements slow, deliberate, distant. She paused only once, casting a warming charm over the room with a flick of her wrist, the heat rolling over him in soft waves. A small mercy.
"Good night," she whispered. Her voice was steady, but something about it felt final. Like a door closing.
And then she was gone, the door shutting softly behind her, leaving him alone in the silence.
He stared at the empty space where she had been, something hollow settling in his chest. He had expected her anger, had almost welcomed it. He could handle anger. He could fight anger. But this—this quiet disappointment, this retreat—cut deeper than any spell, any punch, any wound he had taken tonight. It was the sound of something breaking between them. Something he didn't know how to fix.
The stillness was unbearable. The walls of the room felt too close, the air too thick. He pushed himself to his feet and walked toward their bedroom, his steps heavier than they should have been. When he opened the door, the sight of her lying in bed nearly undid him.
She wasn't asleep.
Her body was still, her breathing slow and measured, but he could see the faint glisten of tears on her cheeks, catching in the moonlight like tiny, shimmering betrayals. She didn't move when he stepped inside, didn't acknowledge his presence. But he knew she felt him there.
He swallowed hard, then, carefully, he slipped into bed beside her. He hesitated, unsure if she would push him away, but she didn't. She just laid there, silent, her back to him, her grief a living thing between them.
Without thinking, he whispered, his voice raw, barely audible, " I'll tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife. Please, offer me that deathless death."
She didn't respond. Her silence was heavier than words, heavier than the bruises on his skin, heavier than the sins pressing against his ribcage, demanding to be spoken. But after a moment—slowly, hesitantly—her fingers reached out, searching for his in the dark.
Her voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with emotion, yet each word struck him like a dagger to the chest. "This is never going to happen again, right?" The desperation in her voice was unmistakable, a fragile thread of hope clinging to something she wasn't sure existed anymore. "You will never make me cry like this again, right?" Her breath hitched, and she shook her head, as if trying to banish the doubt creeping in. "You won't allow me to see you like that again, yes?"
Her plea was not just for reassurance—it was a lifeline. She needed him to tell her that this wasn't their future, that she wouldn't have to live in fear of nights like this, of the ache in her chest that came from seeing him battered and broken, from feeling the helplessness of not knowing how to reach him.
Theo felt something inside him shatter. He wanted to tell her what she needed to hear, to swear on everything he had that he would never let this happen again. But he couldn't. Not truthfully. The world they lived in, the choices he had made—they would always come with a price. And the worst part? She knew it too.
So instead, he did the only thing he could. He pulled her closer, holding her as if that alone could shield her from the pain he had caused. His voice was rough, thick with emotion, as he whispered, "I would never allow myself to see you cry because of me."
Liar.
But there was a painful truth hanging between them, and he couldn't apologize for the rest. He couldn't promise her that the violence in his life would never seep through again. They both knew the world they lived in. They both knew his past, the shadows that clung to him. Apologizing would have been a lie, and he had already caused enough pain for one night.
They lay there in the dark, her soft breaths against his chest, the room filled with unspoken fears and unshed tears. But for now, they held onto each other, hoping that maybe, just maybe, they could make it through the storm together.
~~~~~~
The days passed in a strange, suffocating quiet. They moved around each other like ghosts in their own home, avoiding the unspoken truth that hung heavy between them. He wasn't brave enough to bring it up, and she didn't push. But the silence was unbearable, eating away at him, gnawing at his insides like guilt always does.
He wasn't sure which was worse—the shame of letting her see him covered in blood, or the fact that he couldn't tell her the truth about what he had become. About what he had been doing all this time. He knew she would have questions, suspicions even, but how could he admit that the fight he'd mentioned wasn't really a fight at all? That he had killed someone? And not just yesterday, but over and over again, with a kind of cruel regularity that now felt like a twisted routine.
He'd never imagined this version of himself. The man who took lives like it was nothing, who crossed a line he had sworn he'd never approach. But here he was, drowning in lies and bloodstains, and every time he looked at her, every time her gaze met his, it felt like he was falling deeper into a darkness he couldn't claw his way out of.
She wasn't stupid. She had always been far more perceptive than he gave her credit for. And as much as she avoided pressing him, there was something in her eyes—a quiet knowing. She had seen the blood, the injuries, the haunted look in his eyes. How could she not know? She was waiting for him to say it, to confess the weight he carried. But how could he?
How could he tell her that the man she loved wasn't a 'businessman' anymore? That he was something far worse? He couldn't even look at himself in the mirror without feeling sick. He had always justified it as necessity, a part of his darker dealings, but the more lives he took, the more he felt the emptiness growing inside him.
The guilt had become unbearable, festering like a wound that refused to heal. And yet, every time he thought about telling her, the words stuck in his throat like poison. He couldn't do it. He wasn't ready to lose her. But he also wasn't sure how much longer he could keep pretending, how much longer he could live with the lies.
The nightmares started soon after. Dark, suffocating dreams of blood and death. He'd wake in a cold sweat, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like a vice. Luna, always so attuned to him, would stir beside him, her soft whispers trying to soothe him back to sleep, but nothing helped. The nightmares weren't something he could escape from. They were his reality, creeping into every part of his life.
And still, they avoided the topic.
~~~~~~
That week had been a nightmare, filled with unease that gnawed at her insides. He had two great fears in life: Luna or his children getting hurt. Today, that fear became a living nightmare, one that would forever haunt him.
The morning had been unusually peaceful. Lysander had gone down for his nap without fuss, his tiny body curled up in the soft blankets of his crib. It was one of those rare, quiet moments—the kind Theo had learned to cherish in the midst of their unpredictable days. He had just settled into the living room, sinking into the comfort of the couch, his body finally beginning to relax when it happened.
A scream.
Not just any cry—not the usual tired whimper or the frustrated little fussing of a baby who'd lost his pacifier. This was different. It was raw, high-pitched, and full of unfiltered agony, the kind of sound that sent ice straight through his veins.
The world around him froze for a single, suspended moment before panic seized him. His heart slammed against his ribs, his breath caught in his throat. His mind, sluggish with the initial shock, barely had time to process before he was moving, faster than he thought possible.
He barely registered Luna beside him as they both bolted for the stairs, their feet pounding against the wooden steps. He reached the nursery door first, dread clawing at his chest, suffocating him. He didn't pause—he couldn't. He slammed the door open with such force that it cracked against the wall, the sound lost beneath the piercing cries that filled the room.
And then, he saw it.
Lysander lay in his crib, his little body shaking with sobs, his tiny fists clutching his moonstone rattle as if it was the only thing keeping him tethered to safety. But it wasn't just the crying that made Theo's stomach drop—it was the movement around him. A flurry of shimmering, translucent forms swirled through the air above the crib, shifting and darting in an erratic frenzy.
Crumple-Horned Snorkacks.
Normally harmless creatures—at least according to Luna. They had always been there, lingering unseen in the corners of the house, their presence something she spoke of with affection rather than concern. But now, their usual passive energy had twisted into something different, something frantic. They circled Lysander like moths drawn to a flame, their frenzy focused on the rattle clutched in his tiny hands.
Luna didn't hesitate. With a sharp flick of her wand, the Snorkacks vanished in an instant, their chaotic presence dissipating into nothingness. The air cleared, but the thick weight of fear remained.
She was at the crib in a heartbeat, gathering Lysander into her arms, her hands shaking as she held him close. His cries were still coming in hiccuping sobs, his small body trembling against her.
"Shh, my love, it's okay," she whispered, her voice still soft despite the fear lacing it. "Mummy's here."
But he was inconsolable, big, watery eyes filled with distress. He sniffled and let out another wail, his little hand suddenly lifting to show them something.
His arm.
A small, red mark. A bite.
Theo felt his entire body go rigid. His hands clenched at his sides as something dark and unfamiliar curled in his chest.
Luna's breath hitched as she gently cradled Lysander's bitten arm, pressing feather-light kisses to the reddened skin. "Oh, my sweet boy," she murmured, her voice thick with emotion. "It's just a bite. A little one. Mummy will kiss it better, and it'll be all gone, I promise."
Lysander sniffled, still uncertain, still frightened. He blinked up at her with wide, wet eyes, his lip trembling, before slowly reaching his arm out again—toward Theo this time.
Theo dropped to his knees beside them, his heart hammering against his ribs. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "Come here, little one," he murmured, carefully taking Lysander's chubby arm in his hands.
He pressed soft, exaggerated kisses to the tender skin, each one a silent plea for forgiveness—for not getting there fast enough, for not protecting him better. "See?" he said, his voice thick but gentle. "All better. Dada kissed it away."
Lysander blinked, his little brows scrunching as if weighing the truth in his father's words. He sniffled again, then, slowly—finally—let out a tiny, hiccuping giggle.
Theo felt his entire body sag in relief, his arms coming around both Luna and Lysander as he held them close, grounding himself in the warmth of them. His hand trembled slightly as he rubbed small, soothing circles against Lysander's back, his mind still reeling from the sheer terror of what could have been.
"I thought…" he started, then stopped, swallowing down the tightness in his throat. "I thought I lost him." His voice was hoarse, raw with an emotion he wasn't sure how to express.
Luna shifted slightly, still cradling their son, but her gaze softened as she looked at Theo.
"If something happened to him…" Theo continued, his voice barely above a whisper now, "nothing would ever mean anything again."
Luna didn't speak right away. Instead, she reached out, brushing her fingers lightly over the tension in his jaw, silently reminding him that they were here. That Lysander was safe. That they had made it through this moment—this time.
She rocked their son gently, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead before whispering, "He's okay."
"Theo… it's just a bite. A small scrape. Nothing more. He'll be fine. Look, he's already back to his happy self." She glanced at Lysander, who was playing with her hair, no longer concerned about the small boo-boo. "Last week, he fell off the swing and broke his arm. Now that was a scare."
"He what?" his voice was sharp, a surge of panic coursing through him. "He broke his arm? When?"
" It's healed now. Nothing to worry about," she replied calmly, but her words seemed to do little to soothe him.
"When did this happen?" he demanded, his voice rising. "Where was I?"
"You were off fighting, probably," she said with a bitter edge to her voice, her eyes narrowing as she met his gaze. "Or off doing something else you refuse to talk about."
"Luna—" he began, his heart sinking.
" One day," she interrupted, her tone cold and detached, "I'll be tired of your lies, Theodore. You keep hiding things from me, and one day I won't have any more patience left. So forgive me if I don't rush to tell you every little thing. He's safe with me. But only with me."
Her words cut deeper than any wound ever had. He could only watch as Luna, holding their son protectively in her arms, turned her back on him and left the room. The sound of the door closing behind her echoed in the silence, leaving him alone in the aftermath of her words, the guilt and shame consuming him.
He remained sitting on the floor, his hands gripping his hair as her words echoed in his mind.
He's safe with me. But only with me.
"Luna, wait..." His voice barely escaped his lips, weak and filled with guilt, but she had already left the room, the soft click of the door shutting behind her a heavy punctuation to her words.
His chest tightened, the weight of everything crashing down at once. The sight of Lysander crying out, the thought that for even a second, something terrible could've happened. And now, the revelation that his son had broken his arm while he was off… doing what exactly? Fighting. Killing. Being everything that she despised.
He stared at the crib, feeling like a stranger in his own home. His world, once tethered by her unwavering love and Lysander's innocent laughter, was fraying at the seams.
His baby boy broke his arm. Broke his arm. The thought gnawed at him. And I didn't even know.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to block out the guilt, but it was relentless. How many times had he left her alone, claiming it was for their protection? How many times had he walked back into this house with blood on his clothes, lying to the one person who mattered most? Now, her words—sharp and cold—cut through him like a blade.
One day I'll be tired of your lies, Theodore.
His stomach churned. That day wasn't far off. He could feel it.
"I'm losing her," he whispered, the words barely audible as he stared at the empty space where she had stood just moments before. The weight of it sank deeper into his chest, his heart heavy with the realization that the distance between them was growing—like sand slipping through his fingers.
Theo lingered in the doorway, his fingers curling against the frame as he took in the sight before him. The playroom was bathed in the dim glow of the moonlight, casting long, soft shadows over the scattered toys that littered the floor—small remnants of a world far more innocent than the one he had brought into their home.
She sat by the window, the faint silver light illuminating her delicate features, but her face was turned away, her thoughts seemingly lost somewhere he couldn't reach. Lysander lay curled in her lap, his tiny body rising and falling with each deep, peaceful breath. She stroked his golden curls absentmindedly, the movement slow, rhythmic—comforting, perhaps more for herself than for the sleeping child in her arms.
He took a hesitant step forward, unsure if he should break the silence that stretched between them. "Where did you learn how to heal like that?" he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. It wasn't just idle curiosity. The precision, the ease with which she had mended his wounds, sealed his broken bones—it was beyond anything he had seen.
For a moment, she didn't respond, as if weighing whether or not to answer at all. Then, without looking up, she exhaled. "During the war," she murmured. "I found peace in it. Healing was… different. It was the one thing I could do that wasn't about destruction." She paused, her fingers still running through Lysander's hair. "After everything, I needed something else. So I went to Egypt. I studied under the best. Learned the roots of magic, the kind that doesn't just patch things up but truly understands how to mend."
Egypt. He blinked, absorbing that revelation. It shouldn't have surprised him, but it did. How much did he still not know about her?
He swallowed against the strange feeling that settled in his chest—guilt, admiration, regret all tangled together. "You know everything," he murmured, his voice laced with something heavier than just awe. "About medicine, about magic… about life."
Finally, she turned to look at him, her gaze searching his face with quiet intensity. There was no anger there, not anymore. Just something worse.
Resignation.
"About medicine? Yes," she said simply, her voice steady but distant. "About you? I'm not so sure anymore."
The words hit harder than any spell, any fight, any wound he had ever taken.
She turned back toward the window, her grip tightening protectively around their son, as if bracing herself against whatever answer might come next. But Theo had none.
Because for the first time, he truly understood—she wasn't just questioning him.
She was doubting if she still wanted to know.
~~~~~~~
The room was bathed in soft shadows, the only light coming from the moon spilling through the curtains. He moved carefully, silently, the way he always did when he left her behind. His lips pressed against her forehead in a whisper of a kiss, and as he pulled away, he murmured the same words he always did.
"I love you."
A lie. Or maybe, once, it had been true. Maybe it still was. But now, it was nothing more than a ritual—a practiced, meaningless phrase meant to soothe, to distract, to keep her from questioning. He didn't notice the way her body tensed beneath the sheets, didn't see the way her fingers curled into fists beneath the covers. He never did.
And then, with the sharp crack of Apparition, he was gone.
She opened her eyes the moment the silence swallowed him. The ceiling above her was the same as it had always been, the house as still as it had been every night before this. But something inside her was different. Tonight, the weight of exhaustion wasn't just from lack of sleep—it was the suffocating pressure of every lie, every excuse, every empty promise he thought she was too naive to see through.
She had known for months. Known that the man she had married was slipping further and further into a world he refused to let her see. He thought his secrets were safe behind tired smiles and lingering kisses, behind whispered apologies and careful omissions. He thought that as long as he told her he loved her before he disappeared into the night, she would stay.
He was wrong.
Her decision had been growing like a slow, creeping vine—twisting, tightening, taking hold of her heart until it left no room for anything else. And tonight, she finally had enough.
She sat up, her movements deliberate, her hands steady despite the storm raging inside her. She didn't hesitate. She didn't second-guess.
"Pack my things," she commanded softly, her voice carrying more weight than any shout ever could. "And Lysander's too. We're leaving."
The elves appeared in an instant, their wide eyes full of questions they didn't dare voice. They moved quickly, efficiently, gathering everything that mattered, erasing every trace of her existence from this house.
She, on the other hand, moved slowly, deliberately. Her fingers brushed over the crib where Lysander had slept just hours before, her heart aching as she tucked his favorite stuffed moon into her bag. She walked through the home they had built, the love they had once shared now nothing more than a ghost haunting these walls.
She had given him everything. Her trust, her love, her patience. She had waited, hoping, praying, but no more.
By the time the house was emptied of her and Lysander's presence, all that remained was a small note, resting neatly on his pillow in her delicate script:
Leave us alone.
And then, with one final glance, she was gone.
~~~~~~
The moment she stepped inside, the air felt heavier, colder—her childhood home was no longer the sanctuary it had once been. Without her father's presence, the cottage felt like an echo of the past, a hollow shell of warmth and comfort that had faded with time. She cradled Lysander against her chest, his small weight grounding her as she walked through the familiar rooms. Every corner held a memory, every shadow a whisper of what once was.
Her father's laughter, her mother's voice—they lingered in the silence, remnants of a life that had felt safe, whole. But now, it was just her. Just her and her baby.
She paused in the living room, running her fingers along the worn edges of an old bookshelf, remembering how her father would sit here, reading aloud from The Tales of Beedle the Bard, his voice steady and full of magic. She could almost hear it, almost feel the warmth of those nights spent wrapped in his arms, but when she blinked, the illusion was gone. The room was empty, just like the space inside her chest.
She knew she couldn't stay here forever. The cottage was too small, too isolated, too wrapped in the past. It had been built for dreams, for love, for a family that no longer existed. And she needed more than ghosts to hold on to.
But for now, it was all she had.
She needed time—time to think, to breathe, to figure out where to go from here. The only thing she knew with absolute certainty was that she couldn't keep living the way she had been. Not with him. Not with the lies.
She had spent months trying to convince herself that it wasn't true, that she was imagining things, that the bloodstains on his clothes were from something—anything—other than what she feared. But she wasn't a fool. She knew exactly what Theo was.
Assassin. Killer. Hitman. Monster.
The words made her stomach turn. It didn't matter how he justified it, how he tried to bury it beneath crisp business suits and tender kisses, how he murmured "I love you" against her skin like a prayer. The truth bled through the cracks. She had felt it in the coldness of his hands when he thought she was asleep, had seen it in the haunted look in his eyes when he returned in the dead of night.
And yet, he refused to admit it. That was what broke her the most. Not the violence. Not the blood. But the lies. The quiet, insidious way he had chipped away at her trust, expecting her to live in the dark while he walked in shadows.
What would it take? What would it take for him to finally confess?
A part of her wanted to scream at him, shake him until he cracked, until the words spilled from his lips like an overdue confession. But deep down, she already knew—there was no version of this where he willingly told her the truth. He had made his choice long ago.
And so had she.
She let out a slow breath, pressing a gentle kiss to Lysander's head as he sighed in his sleep. He was her focus now. Her son. Her future.
The cottage was quiet, the wind humming softly against the windows, the night stretching out before her. She didn't know where she was going yet, but she knew one thing—she wouldn't go back to a life built on secrets.
For now, the silence, the stillness, and the steady rise and fall of Lysander's breath against her chest would have to be enough.