Break off Engagement after Fiancé Recovered
Chapter 2
– Sparks and Shards
“Don’t touch me.”
Draven’s voice was ice as Sepharine entered his chamber with a tray of fresh towels and morning tonic.
“I wasn’t going to,” she replied calmly, setting the tray down.
“You were thinking it.” He flung a silver comb at the wall. “Just like everyone else—hovering, waiting to see if the cripple needs help.”
“I wasn’t hovering,” she said. “I was working. Your hairbrush was tangled.”
“I don’t care.”
She didn’t flinch. “Your mother asked me to apply the poultice to your legs.”
“Then she can do it herself.”
Sepharine sat beside the fire, unwrapping the warm compress without another word. The silence was thick—until the sound of glass shattering against the hearth split the air.
“Didn’t you hear me? I said no!” he barked.
She turned, eyes calm. “And I heard you. You’ve said no every day for the past three weeks.”
“Then why are you still here?” His voice was almost a snarl.
“Because I remember who you were,” she said. “Before this room became your cage.”
Draven’s glare sharpened. “You think kindness will fix this? I’m not your pet project.”
“No,” she said softly. “You’re my husband.”
“That was a political decision.”
“For you. Not for me.”
He stared. “What does that mean?”
Sepharine didn’t answer. Instead, she knelt before him and unwrapped the bandages on his legs.
“Stop it.”
“No.”
“Sepharine—”
“Tell me you felt nothing when I massaged your foot yesterday,” she said. “Tell me the heat in your spine was a dream.”
His lips parted—then closed. “Even if I did, what difference does it make?”
“It means there’s still something worth fighting for,” she murmured. “Even if it’s just the ability to walk to the window without needing anyone.”
“You really think you can fix me with warm hands and bedtime stories?”
“I think you’re afraid I might.”
His fist clenched. “You don’t know me.”
“I know you carried a boy with a broken leg down a mountain during the Frostfall raid. I know you shielded a kitchen girl during a fire when you were fifteen.”
“Those were different days.”
“No,” she said gently. “You were different.”
Something sharp flickered in his eyes—then he grabbed a book from the nightstand and hurled it at her.
The spine grazed her cheek, drawing a fine red line.
Silence crashed between them.
Draven stared at the blood blooming down her jaw.
She didn’t move. “Still strong enough to throw.”
“You should scream,” he whispered hoarsely.
“Why?” She dabbed the wound with a sleeve. “You didn’t miss.”
His breath hitched.
She stood slowly. “Dinner is at six. I’ll be back.”
“Why?” he demanded again. “Why do you stay?”
She looked at him. “Because you’re the only person I’ve ever chosen.”
The door clicked shut behind her.
Draven looked down at his hand, still trembling from the throw. For the first time in weeks, he felt heat there. Not just rage—but shame.
Outside, he heard servants whispering.
“Did he hit her again?”
“She’s still going back in?”
“She’s mad.”
Maybe she was. But she was also the only one who hadn't given up.
Draven stared at the fire, then at the shattered glass across the rug. He closed his eyes, and for the first time, didn’t just feel trapped.
He felt afraid.
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