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Her voice cracks and she barely manages to tell Sir Malcolm, to explain to him why she is all alone.
His embrace feels odd after all the weeks feeling nothing but the coldness of the darkness that envelops her.
“Ethan is gone.”
She doesn’t want to do this; it doesn’t make sense anymore to keep on doing this.
The drawing room is heavy with gloom – everyone is mourning something, it seems.
Her arms wrap around herself and she closes her eyes, trying to remember the way his hands stroked her back and his breath ghosted over her cheeks.
“The wolf of God,” Sir Malcolm translates and she feels her chest tightening.
“The protector,” Mr. Lyle continues. “Your protector, Miss Ives.”
“How long have they stopped coming?” Sir Malcolm asks, peering through the thin curtains.
“I don’t know,” Vanessa answers weakly. Every time she speaks, her voice scratches her throat. “Ever since you went to Africa, I guess.”
“The same time Mr. Chandler went away?”
Vanessa glares at Sir Malcolm, his name a wound that still bleeds. Yet, the curiosity at his voice didn’t escape her.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?” Sir Malcolm demands, storming inside the Inspector’s office at Scotland Yard. “I know you have him.”
Bartholomew Rusk is all crooked smiles and cynical looks. “Who?”
“You know very well who,” Sir Malcolm growls. “Ethan Chandler.”
Inspector Rusk switches his attention to her. “Ah. You must be talking about Mr. Talbot,” throwing a thick pile of paper on his desk. “Ethan Lawrence Talbot, to be exact.”
He is reading her reaction, she knows.
She doesn’t give anything away.
“It seems like Mr. Chandler has fooled you all.”
“What matters is the man, not the name,” and her voice is strong and sure, like it never was before.
And the inspector knows she means every word of it.
“He is gone,” the man says and she stops breathing. “Extradited. To America,” and his smirk is obnoxious.
“Delivered him meself.”
Sir Malcolm knows better than to talk her out of it.
“You’re not going alone,” she hears him say behind her, as she shoves her clothes into her luggage. She stops and looks at him.
“I already bought our tickets.”
And she is thankful.
What a strange, yet beautiful land.
But he left because of his father, not his country, she recalls.
Her hands are trembling because she’s finally here.
She sees him first and her breath hitches.
The market is loud but she hears nothing except her heart hammering in her chest; tears threatening to burst.
His eyes are fixed on the floor. He stops and inhales, deep.
It’s like he knows. It’s like he feels her.
He does– she knows he does.
He shakes his head then, and turns to follow another row.
He sees her.
The world fades.
Their bodies are slick with sweat; their faces stained with tears.
She can feel every bruise his fingers left on her soft white flesh.
She raked her nails across his body, marking him as hers.
His mouth is wet and warm on the curve of her neck, her fingers tangled in his hair.
She tugs at him and he complies, lifting his head to look at her.
“Don’t ever leave me again,” and her smile is sweet while her eyes are red.
He leans over her and closes the distance between their lips.
“Never,” he whispers in the dark, and it doesn’t feel as cold anymore.
It feels like home again.