Buried Secrets

7

Helena lay in bed that night, counting the planks in the ceiling with discernible knots, of which there were... twenty-three. A disappointingly low number. She'd already tried sheep and gotten as high as one-hundred-eighty-seven before calling it quits on that failed venture.

Yet sleep refused to claim her despite the exhaustion suffusing her entire mind and body, and it was all Oren's fault. Not because of his deceit—though she'd devoted a good hour and a half to stewing over every single lie. No, she blamed him for her newfound insomnia because he'd yet to make his nightly welfare check.

She didn't know what upset her more. Oren's absence or the desire to weep over it and the resulting sharp pain in her chest, which expanded with every breath.

Was he simply giving her space after their heated argument? Or was this proof he no longer—

The door clicked open, and Helena's heart slammed against her ribs, crying out with every beat, He still cares. Elation and relief sang through her veins, and a sob caught in her throat.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she concentrated on slowing her breathing. Helena counted the seconds until the faint scent of Oren's soap announced his presence at her bedside. She couldn't help but relax with his fingers' gentle pressure and warmth under her jaw.

After he checked her pulse and adjusted her quilt, Helena opened her eyes a bare slit, focusing her attention on the mutinous right button hanging by a thread. Would it choose tonight to abandon its post and expose Oren's backside?

She couldn't think of a more fitting end to such a horrible day—it might even make it salvageable.

Helena held her breath and waited. She clenched and unclenched the covers in her fists every time the fragile thread grew taut and released with his steps. However, Oren walked from her room and quietly closed the door behind him—the button still hanging by its single thread.

Mumbling an unladylike expletive that slipped into a deep yawn, Helena rolled onto her side and finally fell asleep.

Two and a half uncomfortable weeks passed without any success of Helena finding suitable accommodations, and her motivation waned. During that time, any interactions between her and Oren grew increasingly strained until they stopped speaking to one another altogether. Though her attraction to the man didn't diminish as she had hoped.

Quite the opposite.

Her hyper-awareness of every kind or irritating little thing he did caused it to flourish.

She wanted and tried like the devil to despise him for lying to her. It would make leaving so much easier. However, two things made the feat impossible. First, Oren treated her with his usual tender care despite their estrangement. And second, she craved his nightly visits and what they'd come to mean to her the way a prisoner locked in a darkened cell yearned for sunlight.

So it was with much reluctance one morning, as the beginning of the third week of searching dawned, Helena dressed and grabbed her earnings from body snatching over the past few weeks. She stuffed what she hoped would be sufficient for a deposit into her pocket, then tiptoed over and pressed her ear to her bedroom door.

When nothing but silence greeted her from out in the hallway, she crept down the stairs to the parlor. Helena clenched her tongue between her teeth, held her breath, and twisted the knob, cringing when it let out a gentle squeal.

She glanced up the stairs to ensure Oren remained ensconced in his room. Then she pulled the door open, failing to notice until it was too late that Casper watched her from the kitchen doorway.

"Where are you slinking off to so bright and early?" He quietly drawled. A slight grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Pressing a hand to her pounding heart, Helena stopped in her tracks and strove for a calmness she didn't feel. "On a walk."