Chapter 8 - The Longest Night
Instinct took over before my pride could stop me.
""Adrian!""
I dropped the fire poker, grabbed his shoulders, and dragged him inside across the threshold using every ounce of strength I had left, careful not to strain my stomach. I slammed the door shut against the howling gale, throwing my weight against the wood to bolt it.
Adrian was freezing to the touch. His pulse was weak, erratic, and racing. I knew immediately what had happened: severe hypothermia combined with an acute flare-up of his autoimmune gastritis. He had probably tried to walk the mile from the inn to my house during a whiteout blizzard when his rental car got stuck in a snowdrift.
""You idiot,"" I whispered, tears of frustration stinging my eyes. ""You absolute, arrogant idiot.""
I stripped off his soaking sweater, wrapped him in three heavy wool blankets, and dragged him near the radiant heat of the woodstove. I filled an iron kettle with melted snow water, set it on the stove lid, and brewed a concentrated infusion of dried ginger root, licorice, and marshmallow bark—the exact herbal formulation I had spent years perfecting to coat his inflamed stomach lining without triggering nausea.
For four hours, as the storm raged outside, shaking the old house to its rafters, I sat on the floor beside him. I spoon-fed him the warm broth sip by sip whenever he drifted into semi-consciousness. I placed warm towels over his chest and rubbed his freezing hands until the color began to return to his fingertips.
Around three in the morning, the fever broke.
Adrian opened his eyes. The delirium had cleared, replaced by an expression of raw, profound humility. He looked around the simple, firelit room, and then down at my hand, which was resting beside his on the blanket.
""You saved me,"" he croaked, his voice barely above a whisper. ""Again.""
""I kept a human being from freezing to death on my porch,"" I corrected coldly, pulling my hand away. ""Don't flatter yourself.""
Adrian didn't argue. He turned his head toward the crackling fire, silent tears tracing the contours of his sunken cheeks.
""I remember the night before I asked for the divorce,"" he whispered, staring into the flames. ""I came home late. I was so full of myself, so intoxicated by the idea that Bianca thought I was a god. And you... you were standing at the kitchen counter, quietly organizing seven little plastic boxes with my medicine. You looked so tired, Elena. And instead of asking how your day was, instead of thanking you for carrying my burdens for eight years... I threw you away.""
He choked back a sob, clenching the wool blanket in his fists. ""I didn't want a divorce because you didn't need me. I wanted a divorce because I was terrified of how much I needed you. I hated knowing that without you, I was nothing. And I proved myself right. Look at me. Without you, I destroyed myself in four months.""
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I leaned back against the arm of the sofa, watching him. The anger that had burned inside me for so long didn't explode; it simply turned to ash, drifting away into the cold winter night.
""I loved you, Adrian,"" I said quietly. ""I loved you with everything I had. But love without respect is just servitude. And I will never be your servant again.""
