Page 67 of Haunted Crowns
Stephan’s pulse thundered, steady and suffocating with dread and longing as they waited in silence inside the estate.
The car rolled to a deliberate stop. When the door opened, every face flinched.
Commander Saverius stepped out first, his figure cutting a sharp silhouette against the night.
Without hesitation, he circled the car and opened the passenger door. His movements were precise, but barely restrained rage simmered beneath them.
A pale hand emerged, delicate, resting lightly in his. A foot touched the stone, graceful and hesitant.
Stephan barely breathed. Then she stepped out.
She stood at the threshold of her family estate, poised yet fragile, wrapped in a trench coat she clutched tightly across her chest. It concealed what had been done to her, but not all of it; the weariness in her frame and the tremble in her limbs bled through everything.
At the entrance, her parents waited.
Elara broke first. With a choked gasp, she rushed forward, her hands trembling as they cupped Eris’s face and skimmed her shoulders and arms, checking with frantic, desperate movements.
“My darling,” she whispered, her breath ragged. “My precious girl. Are you hurt? Gods, what have they done to you?”
Eris caught her mother’s wrists, steadying them, pressing them gently against her own skin.
“I’m here, Mother. And I’m fine,” she said, softly.
But Yori was not convinced. He stood frozen, his body taut with restraint, his hands trembling at his sides. He had never hesitated to embrace his daughter until now, fear tightening his frame, fear that if he reached for her, she might break.
Eris saw it, and so she smiled warmly at him to remind him that he was still her father and she was still his daughter, still here. That was all it took.
With a ragged breath, Yori pulled her into his arms and held her as if she were the only thing keeping him upright. One hand cradled the back of her head while the other wrapped around her, fiercely. "My girl," he whispered, voice breaking. "My girl."
Eris’s expression flickered for only a second as pain surged where his touch grazed her injuries. She tried to hide it, but Stephan saw. From across the hall, he stiffened, his fists curling tight.
Then came Lysenna and Raphael.
Lysenna’s eyes shimmered with warmth. She didn’t hesitate. Her hands cupped Eris’s face, gently tucking back a strand of hair before drawing her into a careful embrace.
“Welcome home, my dear,” she murmured. Her touch was featherlight, mindful of every unseen wound.
For a moment, Eris allowed herself to lean into the comfort, the softness she hadn’t felt in days.
Raphael waited silently. Only after Lysenna stepped back did he move forward. He placed a firm hand on Eris’s shoulder. “It is good to have you home,” he said, voice gruff, but the words carried more than they said.
Eris gave a nod, then her gaze shifted and found him.
Stephan.
She stepped forward, drawn to him like a tide pulled by the moon, reaching with each step, not just with her hands, but with her gift.
Stephan’s heart slammed against his ribs, his breath caught in his throat.
Don’t move. Don’t break.
Then the flood came. It hit her like a crashing wave, a torrent of feelings pouring from him into her—guilt, despair, longing,torment. Gods, the torment. Eris closed her eyes and braced herself, letting it come. She let the pain surge through her, felt it rage and burn, every sharp edge and every raw wound. She absorbed it all: his agony, his helplessness, the unbearable knowledge of what had been done to her.
And still, she did not break.
Her gift was no curse. It was a vessel, a tide she could rise with. She would not drown. She would not let him drown either. She stopped in front of him, and Stephan drank in the sight of her, not like a lover seeing his beloved, but like a soldier reading a battlefield.
Each wound was a battle report he could read too well: the bruises on her jaw spoke of hands that had seized her, the cracked lip whispered of a slap, the grazes on her knees told him she had been forced down. And then there was the coat—the way she clutched it, her fingers fisting the fabric like a lifeline. What was she hiding?
