Chapter 60: Just for Today

The staff, usually discreet to a fault when it came to the personal affairs of their lords and ladies, were alive with gossip come morning.

"Honestly? Good for her," muttered the cook, stirring her pot of tomato sauce with a shrug, her wooden spoon clinking gently against the sides. "Poor thing deserves a good man. It was a crying shame about Lord Seamus."

"She needed a real man. And someone alive," added one of the scullery maids, smirking into her apron.

"I don't think so," the senior housekeeper cut in sharply as he polished a silver serving tray to a mirror shine. "Let's be honest. Our late lord should've treated the Viscountess far better than he did."

Several nodded in agreement, but one footman frowned. "That's not fair," he said softly. "It seemed like fate itself was against them, no matter how hard they tried."

A butler across the room nearly choked on his morning tea. "The only thing against Lord Seamus was his own damn arrogance."

The conversation came to a screeching halt as Cheri burst through the double doors, arms crossed and eyes sharp as knives. She scanned the room like a hawk circling prey.

"If you hens can talk, you can work."

They scrambled, murmuring apologies and clutching trays and polishing cloths. The kitchen roared back to life with the sounds of clattering dishes and hurried footfalls.

But Cheri lingered for a moment, her gaze drifting upward, toward the ceiling, toward the bedchamber of her mistress. Her stern expression softened. Her shoulders dropped slightly.

If anyone can ease her pain… it's him.

Niegal awoke first.

The morning sun filtered softly through the lace curtains, casting dappled golden light across the sheets. Elena lay beside him, her long curls splayed across the pillow like swirling clouds caught in a summer storm. Her breathing was deep, steady, peaceful.

He turned on his side to watch her, a strange ache growing behind his ribs.

She had let him in; not just into her bed, but into her vulnerability. Into that sacred, bruised place inside her heart she rarely let anyone touch. It almost broke him to know it had taken a year of grief, war, and shattered dreams to reach this moment.

And still… she had chosen him. Not because of obligation, not in desperation. But because she wanted him.

He shut his eyes and buried his nose in her hair, inhaling the delicate scent of chamomile and smoke. He had stayed by her side all this time. Through the collapse of her world, through the fire, through the uprising and the long months of mourning.

And yet, despite all his patience, despite all he'd given… a quiet doubt nestled in his chest.

Am I worthy of her love?

After all he'd done. After all the things he hadn't done. He wasn't sure. But he knew this: he would never pressure her. Only offer constancy. Companionship. A calm harbor after so many storms.

Elena stirred.

At first, she wasn't sure where she was.

Her eyelids fluttered. Her body felt warm… so warm. Her fingers curled against familiar sheets. Her bed. Her room.

But not Seamus's arm around her.

Niegal.

His face, peaceful in sleep, was inches away. He looked younger like this. The silver at his temples caught the light, blending into his dark hair like a river meeting moonlight. Her heart swelled, but also twisted.

Is it wrong to feel this way?

Is this a betrayal?

She didn't want to answer those questions. Not yet. Not today.

Just for today, she would be selfish.

When Niegal began to stir, she reached out, pulling him close, anchoring herself to his warmth. She didn't want to be alone. Not after last night. Not after finally letting go of everything she had buried so deeply beneath duty and grief.

His eyes opened, catching her soft smile in the early light. For a long while, there were no words between them.

Only another kiss.

A tender, longing kiss. One that said, Please stay.

"I don't want to be alone at night anymore," she whispered into his chest, her voice embarrassed but honest.

Niegal gently lifted her chin, his touch so light she barely felt it. Their eyes locked.

A beat passed.

Then two.

He leaned forward—just enough to press his lips to hers, softly, reverently. Her body responded before her mind could catch up, pressing into him, wanting him again.

He whispered against her skin. "I am here for you. Always, querida."

She gasped softly as he moved against her, his body already stirring with need. He entered her again. Slowly, as if savoring every breath, every beat of her heart beneath his.

She nearly cried at the sensation; so intimate, so full of yearning. It wasn't just physical. It was deeper than that. Like he was filling the emptiness she had carried alone for far too long.

He cupped her face, still moving with reverent care, as though she were something divine.

She was.

To him, she always had been.

Their movements grew more urgent, but still wrapped in that rare tenderness born of true longing. They fit together. Not perfectly, but truthfully. Honestly. Two wounded souls, learning how to touch joy again.

Just for today.

Later, as the golden light turned soft and blue with the changing sky, they lay tangled in the bedsheets, their skin flushed and their breathing quiet. Niegal kissed her temple, then her cheek, then finally the corner of her mouth.

His voice was low, raspy with emotion. "I want this. You. But I could never replace Seamus."

The air held still.

Elena said nothing for a moment, just watching the fire's reflection dance in the glass of the windows.

Then, gently, she placed a finger to his lips.

"I don't want you to."

She looked away again, voice barely audible.

"I guess I've just… been lonely."

His arms wrapped around her again. "I know that feeling all too well."

They held each other in silence, no longer afraid of the quiet. No longer afraid of the echoes.

And when the walls of the old manor caught their quiet moans later that afternoon—soft, desperate, and sacred—it wasn't lust that filled those halls.

It was love.

Love in its quietest, most fragile, most human form.