Chapter 61: THE FEATHER
Vivian’s POV
I groaned and rubbed at the persistent itch on my nose, hoping it would stop long enough to let me drift back to sleep. No such luck. It returned just as quickly, dragging me out of whatever fragile dream I’d been clinging to.
Blinking open my eyes, I squinted against the soft blur in front of me. Something feathery and white hovered right in my line of vision. I blinked again, more awake this time, just in time to hear a low, amused chuckle.
The feather belonged to none other than Zaliver, who was crouched beside my bed with that signature smirk tugging at his lips. He looked far too pleased with himself, clearly the one behind my rude awakening. I almost smiled out of reflex, but then everything from last night hit me again like a crashing wave.
My smile died before it could surface. I pressed my lips together and said nothing, letting silence be my answer. His expression faltered slightly. He didn’t try to explain, and I didn’t ask for one.
Then came the smell, warm, delicious, and way too close. My stomach betrayed me with a loud growl. Zaliver gently moved the feather aside, revealing a breakfast tray resting over my lap, complete with a single red rose.
I looked at it for a long moment. The rose was fresh, not store-bought, the kind that meant someone had gone looking for it early. The food was still warm, which meant he’d timed it. He’d thought about this, planned it, arranged it, and then woken me up with a feather so the tray would be the first thing I properly saw. It was so specifically, deliberately him that I felt the tightness in my chest pull in two directions at once.
I still hadn’t forgiven him. But I wasn’t made of stone either.
"Good morning, beautiful," he said softly. "Breakfast in bed to start your day."
I didn’t meet his eyes. "Thanks," I murmured, picking up the fork just to give my hands something to do. I wasn’t all that hungry yet, and the weight of his gaze made it worse. I hated eating with someone watching me like that, especially him. It felt too intimate, too vulnerable.
As if sensing that, he shifted his focus, reaching for a loose strand of my hair. He started playing with it, then twisting it experimentally. I didn’t stop him. I don’t think he even realized he was doing it at first. Eventually, he attempted to braid it, fumbling awkwardly. I could feel the gentle tugs and restarts as he tried again and again until he finally got the hang of it.
Once I was done eating, though I barely touched half, he noticed immediately.
"That’s all you’re eating?" he asked, clearly worried.
I nodded.
He stared at me a little longer, like he wanted to say something else, but stopped himself. With a quiet sigh, he set the tray down on the floor and sat at the foot of the bed, just near my legs.
Silence settled between us again, but not the comforting kind. It was the kind that came after things were said and done and couldn’t be taken back.
"I’m sorry," he finally said, his voice low and honest. His hand rested gently on my thigh, grounding and warm.
"I know." And I did. I could feel his emotions through the bond now, the way his remorse bled into mine. But it wasn’t regret. That’s what gnawed at me. He wasn’t sorry for what he did, just that it upset me.
I needed space. Not from him exactly, but from the pull of him. The bond was new and raw and it kept trying to override my own thoughts with his presence, his warmth, the steady beat of him that I could now feel like a second heartbeat beneath my own. It was disorienting in a way I hadn’t anticipated. I needed quiet that was just mine, thoughts that didn’t have his fingerprints all over them.
Without a word, I slid out of bed and stood. Zaliver rose with me, watchful as I moved about the room. I didn’t bother explaining. I didn’t know how to put it into words. I grabbed a pair of black jeans and a fitted long-sleeved shirt and stepped into the bathroom to change.
When I came out, tying my shoes, he was still there. Close. Too close.
"What are you doing?" he asked, stepping forward as I straightened.
"I’m going for a walk," I said calmly, keeping my tone even.
"I’ll come with you," he offered immediately, already reaching for his own shoes.
"No." I turned to face him fully. "I want to go alone."
He stopped, eyes narrowing just slightly. His jaw tightened, but after a pause, he gave a slow nod.
"I’ll call your guards, then—"
"Alone," I repeated firmly, folding my arms across my chest to make it clear I meant it.
We stared at each other in that thick silence again. He didn’t like it, I could tell. His fists clenched at his sides, and I could see the argument forming somewhere behind his eyes, sharp and defensive. But he bit it back. He turned away. Silent.
That in itself was shocking.
"But you have to take your phone," he finally said, voice clipped.
There it was. He had to get the last word in. Still, I didn’t argue. I simply nodded. That was fair enough, not unreasonable.
He stepped around the bed and pulled open the drawer on his side. Then he handed the phone to me, his fingers brushing against mine as he did.
Neither of us let go right away. His eyes held mine for a moment, searching for something I wasn’t sure I had to give yet. Then I stepped back, tucked the phone into my pocket, and walked to the door without looking at him again. I needed the walk. I needed the air. I needed ten minutes of not feeling him in my chest like a second heartbeat, just so I could figure out what I actually felt on my own.
I’d figure out the rest when I got back. And maybe, just maybe, by then I’d have something real to say to him instead of silence.