I wait, watching her.

She’s in a mood tonight—and I suspect it’s about far more than finding me with her writings. In all honesty, I haven’t even looked at the journals—for some reason, that felt like a violation tonight. But I wanted her to see me with them, though I can’t say exactly why. Maybe I just wanted to get a rise out of her.

But I didn’t expect it would upset her this much. There’s clearly something else going on here, and I intend to find out exactly what.

I lean a little closer, but slowly, giving her the chance to pull away. When she doesn’t, I pause again.

I wait for what feels like an inordinate amount of time, but what is actually probably only a minute or two. Finally, she makes an exasperated sound and pushes away from me.

“You’re terrible at making threats, you know,” she says. She grabs the front of her robe and holds it shut.

“Are you complaining? You’d have preferred it if I’d made good on my words?”

“I’d prefer it if you respected my privacy.”

With a sigh, I cross my arms and lean against the wall behind me. “I only want to get to know you better. To help you. And since you won’t be open with me, I’ve resorted to finding other ways to learn the things you won’t tell me.”

“Ah, so this is all completely selfless, is it?” She spins away from me, pulling her wet hair around over her shoulder. “Smooth.”

“It’s not completely selfless. But I also don’t think it’s inappropriate to want to know about my wife’s past. Or her feelings.” I hesitate, then go on. “I didn’t read your journals. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want—that’s the truth.”

She pulls open a door and roots agitatedly through the contents. After a moment, she pulls out some pajamas in favor of the nightgown she’s already holding, but she doesn’t put them on. Instead, her shoulders sag slightly.

“What do you want from me?” she asks, her voice soft. She sounds sad—and completely defeated. It makes my chest ache.

“I want to know how you feel,” I say. “Something is obviously bothering you—and it’s not just me and your journals. I’ve met your family, Justine. You’re certainly not getting any emotional support from them. So let me help.”

She shoves the drawer shut. “I don’t need your help.”

“I didn’t say you did. But I’m offering it.”

She turns on me, anger flaring in her eyes again. “Stop treating me like I need your pity. Or like I’m some puzzle to be solved. I’m a woman, and I don’t feel like spilling my feelings to anyone who asks.”

My eyes never leave hers. “I’m not anyone.”

I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth—I know they’ll probably only piss her off more. Instead, though, something seems to break in her. She squeezes her eyes shut, and all of the fight seems to leave her.

“I’m just tired,” she says finally, her voice barely audible. “I’m tired of fighting. Of being forced to put on a brave face when choices keep being ripped away from me. Tired of being the only person in this entire palace who seems to give a damn about what happens outside these walls.” Her eyes open. “You know what I did all afternoon? I went out into the city and tried to help. But there’s only so much I can do when my father refuses to use funds to update infrastructure or make critical repairs. We knew the risk, and yet my father did nothing. And I had to see my people, try to comfort them and tell them everything would be all right, when we all know that’s a lie. They look to me for help, but I have no more power there than I do in any other part of my life.”

She raises her hands, presses the heel of her palms against her eyes. Then, with a frustrated shake of her head, she lowers them again.

“I’m just so, so tired. I can’t do this anymore.”

I take a step toward her—but just one. “Then you should go to bed.”

She gives a bitter laugh. “Yes, that’s exactly what I need to do.”

I nod, glad that for once, she’s not arguing. “Once you’ve rested, you’ll feel better. At the very least, you’ll have a clear head and be able to—”

“No. That’s not what I meant.”

Her eyes meet mine, and though they shine with tears, there’s something else there, too—something that, in spite of everything, brings my body to immediate attention.

She steps toward me. “I need to escape all of this for a little while. To just…let go.”

I don’t move. The last thing I want is to misinterpret this. “And…how would you like to let go?”

She’s right in front of me, and this close, I can actually see the tears clinging to her lashes. I can also see the exhaustion—both physical and emotional—etched on her face. She hesitates only a moment before reaching up and placing a hand on my chest. Her fingers burn against my bare skin.

“Don’t make me say it,” she says. “I just… I’m so tired of fighting. Can’t we just, for tonight, forget all of it?”

I don’t know how to respond—my mind is racing, thinking this is another trap of some sort, but my arms move of their own free will, coming up and wrapping around her, pulling her closer. She falls against me, sinking into my chest, clinging to me.

I stiffen, waiting for her to tell me this was some sort of test. But it doesn’t feel like a test—it feels like someone needing to be held, and I don’t have the strength to resist her. I tighten my arms around her, dropping my face to her hair. She trembles slightly and grips me tighter.

After a moment, I feel wetness against my chest—tears. They start as a trickle, but within moments, she’s silently sobbing, holding onto me as if I’m her only lifeline in this cruel world.

“It’s all right,” I murmur into her hair. “You’re not alone. And we don’t have to fight anymore.”

She responds by squeezing me so tight I struggle to breathe, but I don’t mind.

“You’re not alone,” I tell her again. “It’s all right. I’ll hold you all night if that’s what you want.” God, I want that, too. I don’t know what she’s done to me, but having her here in my arms like this, feeling her cry against me, has made me feel more protective than I thought possible. I ache to comfort her, to ease whatever pain she’s feeling.

“Yes,” she whispers against my skin, her breath warm. “That’s what I want.”

“Then let’s get you to bed.”

Carefully, I pull back just enough to lift her up. Once she’s in my arms, I carry her out into the bedroom and lay her down gently on the bed. She holds onto me the entire time, and when I try to straighten, she refuses to let go, instead pulling me down beside her.

I don’t fight her. I fall into bed next to her and pull her fully into my arms again. Her face presses against my shoulder, and mine finds her hair again. I inhale the scent of her.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her again.

Her tears have stopped, but she still grips me as if she doesn’t know what else to do.

How long has she been holding this in? I wonder. How long has she been so alone?

I’m not sure how long we lie there, clinging to each other, before I finally pull back slightly. She makes a small sound of protest.

“I’m just turning off the lamp,” I tell her. I reach over and flick off the switch, then try to pull her up against my chest again. This time, though, she resists, pulling back from me.

“That’s not what I want,” she murmurs.

Disappointment fills my stomach, but I try not to let it show. “That’s fine. I can—”

“No,” she says. In the dark, her hands find my face. “This is what I want.”

She doesn’t give me a chance to respond. Instead, she pulls my face down to hers.