CHAPTER 151: HEALING

AIDEN – POV

I didn’t speak again.

Not because there weren’t a hundred things I wanted to say... but because none of them would’ve been enough.

No apology could undo what I’d done.

So instead, I didn’t speak.

I just held her.

She stayed limp in my arms, curled up like a wounded animal—small, shivering, fragile in a way I’d never let myself imagine. Her hands, still clutching her little pile of belongings, trembled slightly. Like even now, some part of her didn’t believe she was allowed to stay.

She thought I would throw her out.

Maybe she wanted me to.

Maybe that would’ve made things simpler.

I should’ve hated her. I tried to. God knows I tried.

But now, as I brushed a strand of tangled hair from her face, gently tucking it behind her ear, all that loathing drained out of me like poison from an old wound.

I didn’t hate her anymore.

I hated what I’d done to her.

I hated that I’d missed every red flag she waved, screaming silently for help through her sarcasm, her defiance, her sharp tongue. They weren’t signs of cruelty.

They were shields.

And I destroyed every one of them until all that was left was... this.

A girl who didn’t even have the strength to cry anymore.

I shifted slightly on the couch, repositioning her so she could lean her weight against me without strain. Her head found my chest, and her hand—shaking, hesitant—gripped the fabric of my shirt. Not out of affection. Just something to hold onto. Something that wouldn’t burn her.

I guided her legs across my lap and tugged the soft blanket draped over the couch’s armrest. I wrapped it around her slowly, gently, as if I were afraid she might shatter.

Because maybe she already had.

When her fingers tightened just a little, I didn’t ask anything. I didn’t push.

Instead, I brought one hand up and began running my fingers through her hair.

Slow. Steady.

Just back and forth. A rhythm. A comfort.

Her breath hitched once. Then again. Not sobs, not full cries. Just the body remembering how to breathe in grief instead of panic.

I rested my chin on the top of her head.

Her skin smelled faintly of earth, ash, and tears.

She always smelled like she’d survived something. Even when she was healthy. Even when she was snarling at me in the palace halls. Even then, there was this after scent to her.

Like she’d already burned.

And I... I’d fanned the flames.

I looked down at the shape of her in my arms. Still. Quiet. Clinging to me not because she forgave me—but because she had nothing else.

I’d taken everything from her.

Even her ability to walk away.

A deep, wrenching guilt settled in my chest.

When she was sick, she’d cried out in her sleep.

I remember now.

Her voice echoing in the dead of night—"Mommy, it hurts!"—again and again, writhing, begging, whispering those words like a prayer through cracked lips and fevered dreams.

And I had ignored it.

I told myself it was just the infection. Just nonsense.

Because it was easier than facing the truth.

That she’d already been broken long before I ever laid a hand on her.

And instead of helping her piece herself back together...

I shattered what little she had left.

My thumb traced over her temple now, slow and featherlight.

She didn’t flinch.

That hurt more than if she had.

She just... let me.

Let me touch her like I hadn’t spent months trying to rip her apart.

And still, she held on to me. As if some broken, desperate part of her hoped I wouldn’t let her go.

"I see you now," I whispered, finally, against her hair.

She didn’t reply.

But she breathed.

Steady. Quiet. Real.

That was enough.

So I stayed like that.

I held her through the quiet.

And I swore to whatever force still cared that I wouldn’t let her fall again.

Not from my hand.

Not ever.

******

I don’t know how long we stayed like that—her in my arms, the blanket tucked tightly around her, my hand never stopping its gentle pass through her hair. Time stopped mattering. I only knew the way her breathing steadied, slow and raw, like each inhale was still a fight her body wasn’t sure it deserved to win.

She didn’t speak again.

Neither did I.

I didn’t trust my voice. Not when the guilt sat so thick in my throat I could barely swallow.

Then the door creaked open.

I didn’t move.

I knew the sound—quiet, measured steps on the marble floor. The butler, William. He always walked like that. With the patience of a man who had watched empires fall, yet still remembered how I liked my coffee.

He stepped into the living room slowly, his gaze sweeping over the scene.

Alexia still hadn’t noticed him. She was buried against my chest, completely still, her fingers curled into my shirt like the fabric was the only thing tethering her to earth.

William didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t question.

He just... saw.

And for a moment, he didn’t look like a servant.

He looked like a goddamn witness.

His face didn’t twist in judgment, though I deserved it. Instead, his lined mouth pulled into a subtle, knowing smile—one I couldn’t look at too long without feeling it cut deep.

He’d seen everything.

How I treated her.

How I’d stripped this girl of dignity, little by little, in the name of control. Of vengeance. How I’d dismissed every tremble in her hand, every red rim around her eyes, every time her voice cracked while saying yes, sir with hollow obedience.

William saw it all.

And he never said a word.

Until now.

"Your Grace," he said gently, his voice more tired than usual. "I’ll be hiring new staff first thing in the morning."

I blinked, confused for a second—then I remembered.

The maids. I’d fired them. Every last one.

Told Alexia she could handle it all herself if she was going to laze around the estate like some entitled pet. Told her she should know how to scrub floors and iron clothes since she was no longer a princess but a burden to repay.

I remembered the way she’d gone quiet. Just nodded.

She always just nodded.

And did it.

Until today.

Until she cracked.

I looked at William, throat thick.

He didn’t say anything else. Just gave me that same small, understanding smile. Then glanced once at the girl in my arms, his eyes softening.

"I’ll have the room staff ready by noon," he said. "And her chambers cleaned. Properly this time."

Her chambers.

I’d made her sleep in the guest wing. The smallest guest room, cold and bare, tucked behind the laundry. Said she didn’t deserve anything else.

And she’d gone.

Without a fight.

God, what the hell was wrong with me?

I nodded slowly. "Thank you."

William dipped his head. "Of course, sir."

He turned to leave—but paused, hand on the doorframe. His voice, when he spoke again, was quiet. Almost hesitant.

"She reminds me of your mother sometimes," he said, without looking back. "Strong. Until someone mistook silence for weakness."

Then he left.

And I sat there, completely still.

Alexia stirred in my arms, just a little, her breath catching like maybe something from her dream—or memory—gripped her again.

I whispered softly, instinctively.

"Shh... I’ve got you now."

She didn’t answer.

But her fingers tightened.

And this time, it wasn’t in fear.

It was in trust.

A trust I hadn’t earned.

But one I swore to God I would.

Even if it took the rest of my life.