Evelyn looked at me, still blushing, still panting. Her cheeks tinged with red and her chest rising and falling rapidly revealed how much that moment had taken our breath away—in a good way, intense, almost silent.
I had barely caught my breath when I pulled her close again, as if the space between us were a mistake that needed to be corrected. I kissed her forehead tenderly, then her still parted lips, and finally her nose, just to see her laugh with that little smile that melted me.
"Want to go for a horse ride?" I whispered, my mouth too close to her skin.
"Ride? I thought his back was hurt." She frowned, crossing her arms and giving me that suspicious look that was becoming routine.
"He's better now," I replied, pulling a crooked smile, trying to look carefree, even though I knew my fake expression was as convincing as a torn curtain.
She didn't buy it for a second.
"Why do I feel like you're a terrible liar?" she retorted, arching an eyebrow, as if she already had all the answers and was just asking to see how far I would go with the charade.
I let out a low laugh and took a step closer, raising my finger and lightly poking her chin in a gentle, almost automatic gesture.
"You have too big a vocabulary for someone from the countryside," I teased, provoking her with a half-smile.
She rolled her eyes, but didn't move away. She just bit the corner of her mouth, holding back a laugh, and muttered:
"And you have too much charm for someone who lies so badly."
She murmured something, too low for me to understand.
"What?" I asked, tilting my head slightly, curious.
"Nothing!" she replied too quickly, looking away. Her flushed cheeks gave her away, but she lifted her chin, trying to disguise her embarrassment with pride. "Hmph! My grandmother could read and write. She could even do math. She was once a housekeeper, you know?"
"I believe you," I replied sincerely. And it was true. Only the servants in large houses learned such things. It was obvious that this had been passed down, like a thread of knowledge resisting time, sewn together by generations.
Riding with Evelyn was... unexpectedly light. I carried her with a steady hand and an unguarded heart. At first, she remained stiff, clearly uncomfortable with the attention of the neighbors. Curious faces appeared between windows, fences, and dirt roads. Everyone wanted to see who the stranger was riding a black horse, taking the limping girl for a ride as if she were a princess.
Every time they stopped us, asking who she was, I replied with the same naturalness:
"My wife."
Evelyn blushed like a tomato picked too early.
"You're embarrassing me..." she muttered through clenched teeth, but without moving away from me.
At first, she thought I was joking. That it was just another one of my provocations. But little by little, I saw her gaze change. Even when some girls from the village — much more dressed up, full of perfume and flowery dresses — approached with curious smiles, my eyes never left her. Evelyn noticed. And she remained silent the rest of the way, leaning on me as if she were finally home.
At the end of the afternoon, we were sitting in front of the house. Her mother watched us like an eagle watches its prey. She was the kind of woman that life had treated harshly, but who had not let herself be broken. She had a firm chin and eyes as sharp as a general's.
"We took care of Evelyn for many years," she said. "And, honestly, I don't know what qualities you saw in my daughter."
Evelyn grimaced and gave me a look that said, "You're going to defend me, right?"
But the truth escaped before I could think.
"I don't know either." Her eyes widened, her mouth half open in indignation. She pouted, sulking like a disgruntled child.
"And yet you want to take her with you?" the woman insisted harshly.
"Yes."
There was a pause. A tense silence.
"What if you get sick of her?" Her voice trembled slightly, but it was with fury, not fear. "What if you throw her away like an old rag? I don't want to visit the city and find my daughter's corpse hanging on some wall."
She had overcome her fear. She spoke out of love. Out of protection.
I took a deep breath and, for the first time, spoke without a shield, without armor, without laughter.
"I can't guarantee her safety. The world is cruel, and I am not omnipotent. But I swear, by everything I have, that for anyone to touch her, they will have to step over my dead body. If Evelyn dies far from my presence, I swear I will avenge her death. Even if it means entering the mouth of a dragon or invading the emperor's palace."
The woman's eyes fixed on me. She analyzed me as if trying to read my soul. For several long minutes, she said nothing. Until her expression began to soften, almost imperceptibly.
"Do you want this?" she asked, looking at her daughter.
Evelyn, who had been looking down, almost hiding behind her crooked bangs, slowly raised her eyes. Her face was completely red. She answered with the most honest voice I had ever heard.
"Yes. He already kissed me... so I can't get married anymore."
Her mother sighed heavily, as if realizing that the battle was lost. Her eyes rested on me again, then lingered on my face — as if engraving every feature. Finally, they moved down to my hand and fixed on the ring on my finger. An ironic smile formed on her lips.
"Years ago, a centipede came into our lives and hurt our little girl. And now another one has appeared, wanting to take her away from us... It seems like fate," Evelyn's mother snorted, grumpy as ever. But for the first time, her gaze softened.
There was something in her eyes that only mothers have. An old pain, mixed with silent relief.
"I'll entrust my daughter to you, then."
I nodded, feeling the weight of trust being placed on me. I couldn't—and didn't want to—fail at this.
"We'll come visit her every month. I promise," she said firmly. It wasn't just for her. It was for the woman in front of me, for the life Evelyn would leave behind, for the lame sheep that insisted on following her around the yard.
The woman didn't answer right away. She looked at her daughter, as if reading a story that only she knew. She saw everything she needed to see in that look: Evelyn's enchantment, her sweetness, her surrender.
"Do as you wish," she said, and even though she seemed indifferent, I saw the corner of her mouth tremble. She was happy. Maybe even relieved.
In the last few days, Evelyn had laughed like she hadn't laughed in a long time. The woman knew that. She had sent her to take care of the sheep just so she would have something to occupy her heart. But Evelyn needed more. She needed the world.
She just wanted her daughter to be happy.