Luelle
Peeking through the gap in the door of the tin pantry, I pressed my back against the wall, enveloped in the scent of spices and canned goods. I watched Ethan. He walked with heavy steps, shoulders stooped—a weary silhouette worn down by the weight of his responsibilities. I had seen this before, the way he shed his façade when he was alone. Here, in his quiet apartment, the masks slipped away, leaving only the truth of who he was beneath them. In this space, I could feel the raw weight of everything he carried, pressing down on him more heavily than usual.
He reached for the bottle of wine on the counter, pouring it to the rim of the glass. Then, from the drawer, he retrieved a small vial—a sedative, the kind he rarely took. It wasn't strong, just enough to quiet the relentless churn of his thoughts, granting him a fleeting escape into sleep.
My heart ached as I pressed a hand to my chest, overwhelmed by the sheer force of my love for him. The ache consumed me, tightened around me like something unrelenting. I could feel his pain, a tangible presence in the room, and the helplessness of knowing I could do nothing to ease it tore at me.
I watched as he quickly drank the wine in small, measured sips, the sedative swirling into the deep red liquid. He paused, staring at the empty glass before placing it in the sink, his movements slow, deliberate—each action requiring effort.
I remained perfectly still, my breath barely a whisper as I listened to him retreat to the bedroom. I stayed hidden in the pantry, counting his footsteps, waiting for the soft creak of the mattress as he lay down.
Soon, the sedative worked its magic, deepening his breaths, granting him the comfort of sleep. And then, drawn by an invisible thread, I slipped through the concealed entry in the pantry wall into his apartment. My steps were practiced, smooth, the floor yielding to my weight as I moved silently into his room.
Ethan lay there, his face softened by the dim light, unburdened for the moment from the tension that defined him by day. If I dared to truly look at him, I knew my heart would shatter, and I instinctively curled my fingers against the fabric of my jacket.
I loved him. More than anything. More than I should.
This love consumed me, dictated every decision, every risk I took. I had woven my existence around him, creating a life devoted to watching over him, keeping him safe, staying close—even as shadows cloaked my presence.
My father's voice echoed in my mind, cold and firm. "Stay away from Ethan. Let him do his job as leader. He doesn't need your meddling."
But how could I stay away? How could I sever myself from the one who meant everything to me?
Slowly, deliberately, I sank into the chair beside his bed. The worn leather creaked gently under my weight, yet Ethan remained still, the sedative cradling him in a cocoon of quiet. I studied his face, my heart heavy with the memory of the ball my father had told me about—the event where Ethan would meet the women chosen for him by the Dominion, where he would select his future bride.
The thought coiled into a knot of ice in my gut, a bitter ache that stabbed at my heart. I wasn't meant to be part of his world like that. I belonged to the shadows, unseen, unacknowledged.
I exhaled softly, reflecting on the path that had led me to this moment, hidden in the dim corners of his room. The secret door in his pantry had been a solution to a problem no one else would have even considered. But the real challenge was finding ways to keep Ethan safe in ways the Dominion's sentries could not.
I had installed the door soon after purchasing the apartment next to his, under the guise of an elderly man—Gerard Aptos.
Months of careful planning had gone into my deception. Gerard was gruff and stooped, his skin aged with the help of prosthetics and makeup. Oversized spectacles perched on his nose, their magnifying glare concealing my sharp, watchful eyes. When I spoke, my voice shifted, lowering into a gravelly, tired timbre—an old hermit who preferred solitude.
To the building staff, to Ethan, to anyone in the Dominion checking in, Gerard was nothing more than a neighbor.
But the disguise wasn't the most important part—it was the hidden entrance that truly mattered.
Ethan's apartment and Gerard's modest dwelling occupied the upper level alone, a rare architectural choice that had given me the opportunity I needed. I had used my skills, my resources, to craft a secret access point—hidden, undetectable—between the two apartments. Within my pantry, a narrow, soundproof passageway led directly into his kitchen pantry.
It hadn't been easy, but it had been necessary.
I had waited until Ethan left for business to execute the renovations. Gerard had requested permission from the building administrators to repair a crack in his wall. No one noticed the debris that quietly vanished. A few times, I had even slipped into Ethan's apartment through his balcony, ensuring nothing was amiss during the construction. I had checked and rechecked the pantry, making sure no one would detect the changes.
The secret entrance became my lifeline, a way to slip into his apartment when I needed to—sometimes after missions, sometimes just to be near him.
And now, here I was, watching the man I loved, my heart breaking for him. To me, Ethan wasn't just the heir to the Dominion. He wasn't the symbol the world aspired to, the leader-in-waiting burdened by generations of expectation. He was simply Ethan. The man I adored.
A quiet sound from his bed broke through my thoughts. The signs were subtle at first—a twitch of his brow, a hitch in his breathing. Then, his fingers curled into the blankets, shoulders stiffening as nightmares clawed at him.
My heart constricted. I had seen this before. Every time he let his guard down, the nightmares came.
I moved closer, steps soundless, rehearsed. His breaths grew ragged, his face contorting under the weight of his dreams. Carefully, I reached out, fingertips brushing against his before I allowed myself to give in.
I took his hand in mine, gripping it tightly as if to anchor him to reality, to me.
"Ethan," I whispered, my voice barely a breath.
His warmth steadied me, grounding him as much as it did me. His fingers tightened around mine, his subconscious seeking the refuge I offered—even if he didn't realize it was me. His breathing slowed, muscles gradually relaxing.
This wasn't the first time I had done this. Countless times, I had offered him this quiet comfort. It wasn't much, but I knew it helped.
In the silence of his room, even this simple act—holding his hand—calmed the descent into darkness.
I sat beside him, whispering gentle reassurances, a soothing rhythm I hoped would reach him in the depths of his troubled dreams.
I wasn't sure if he would remember any of it. He never had before.
But that didn't matter.
I stayed because I loved him. I stayed because it was the only way I knew to comfort him. I stayed because I couldn't imagine being anywhere else—not when my heart belonged to him, aching with a longing that refused to fade.