#chapter teaser

The pressure to spill was getting to you mentally and emotionally.

Each time the truth almost tumbled out, Irenka’s glare forced you into silence.

The three of you sat at the table breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Joker and Irenka talking in Slovak while you poked your food in trained submission. J would try and invite you into the conversation every odd sentence or two, but he failed to see Irenka’s warning glare out of his peripheral.

You didn’t dare speak. Her eyes forbade you to. One wrong word and you could ruin everything.

In Irenka’s eyes, you already proven yourself the enemy. She saw how her son doted on you. You had Joker wound so tightly around your finger, he made himself into a literal fool.

Bringing you here was reckless. There was no guarantee that you weren’t followed. Joker sacrificed too much to keep this land hidden—to keep those that lived here safe, and he spat on that vow the moment he let you in.

As if she would be nice to you. Not when your very presence threatened so much.

Meanwhile, Joker pointedly ignored the bad blood in the air. He wanted the two most important women in his life to get along. Somehow.

You loved to cook, so does his matka; so, every morning he nudged you into the kitchen with an encouraging smile. Irenka threatened you to get out with a cleaver each time.

You saw her knife work on the dinner table. No thank you.

Joker thought the two of you cooked together and bonded over female camaraderie. You didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth. Not when pale green narrowed into slits over his head.

“I dare you to say something.”

You didn’t. Not when you could tell Joker was happy to be home. Why be a jerk and sully his homecoming?

You saw how relaxed his shoulders were, how he easily spoke his native tongue even after years of speaking English. You caught him laughing with Irenka in the greenhouse. His smile was so carefree, you never seen him like that..

Was this the real Joker? The one who you weren’t allowed to know?

You were responsible for his misery. You clearly gave him enough to stress over. He looked so happy without you. Perhaps..

Just the thought caused a sharp pain in your chest.

Why did Joker bring you here anyway? This was supposed to be your escape from stress, but this trip only highlighted how much better Joker’s life would be without you in it. Irenka’s hatred seemed justified once you gave it some thought.

Joker was so much happier without you. Maybe you would do everyone a favor and leave.

Until you could find out how, you distanced yourself.

You didn’t speak at the table. You gave short answers and nods whenever Joker spoke to you and purposefully took walks alone. It was for the best to lay low until you could sneak off and run.

Thankfully, Joker was a smart man. His sixth Y/n sense always creeped you out with how he noticed everything about you—down to the tiniest detail.

He took pride knowing his Light. If something were amiss, he would know.

And all it took was one sigh.

Granted it took him a few days to identify it; Joker knew that sigh from anywhere.

It was shaky and watery. Born from a monumental load of stress, that single sound told Joker so much.

He looked at you differently that morning. Irenka kept rambling about crops in the greenhouse, but Joker’s full attention was on his Bunny.

You weren’t eating. Your head was down to hide the puffy remnants of tears. You had bitten your nails to nubs. And more importantly, you looked ready to run.

“Talk to me.”

The room fell silent. Irenka stopped mid sentence to stare at J. He wasn’t talking to her. His gaze was fixed on you. Of course it was.

Her eye snapped to you. You were practically curled up in your seat pushing scrambled eggs around the plate. You hadn’t eaten a bite.

Having everyone’s attention made you burrow further into your shell—even more so when Joker exhaled through his nose.

Joker didn’t think; he simply acted.

The wooden legs of your chair creaked loudly across the floor and masked the sound of your startled yelp.

Before you could say a word, emerald green flooded your view. Joker scooted you so close that you could see the flecks of gold shimmering in his eyes. Your brain naturally short circuited at the sight.

“Hovoril som s tebou!”

Joker didn’t bother glancing at Irenka as he responded “Well. I’m talking to Y/n now.”

He then rested his hand on the backrest, caging you into the seat. You jumped at the close contact and looked away.

“Hm, I think we’re well past you being afraid of me.” he droned on, leaning in closer.

You tried to speak, yet no words escaped. Joker hummed to himself while scanning your face for clues. You feared what he’d find.

“We can do this the err.. ea-Zzzy way where you tell me what’s wrong. Orrrr. Mm, you’ll love this one. I’ll make you tell me.”

You gulped, hearing his voice drop an octave.

Leave it to Joker to resort to violence. You weren’t sure if he’d go easy on you because he liked you. The cold jade drilling holes into your head told you J was not in a laughing mood.

“And so, the Rakshasa and the Flumph lived happily ever after... the end. Would you like to hear another?”

(Children squeal with glee.)

“Me! I want to pick!”

“No, it’s my turn! Tommen picked last time!”

“Nu-uh!” “Uh-huh!”

(A shrill shriek.)

“All right, children! Settle down—no need to fight. We have the magic name bag, remember?

And no peeking... now, who did we get?”

“Puck!”

“Um... I want to hear the Bear Prince and the Fey Knight!”

“That old story? But you’ve heard me tell it so many times, I’m worried your ears will start to fall off!

What about... the Adventures of Balduran?”

(The children cry out ‘no!’ in unison.)

“Fine, fine!”

“I’ll be in so much trouble when Daddy Halsin finds out I’ve let you stay waaay past your bedtime again!”

(The children’s laughter tinkles like bells.)

This, Halsin mused, was precisely the reason he had come home ahead of his company—leaving the final stretch of the journey in the capable hands of his contemporary. He hadn’t had a proper night’s meditation since turning his back on the Trielta Crags, and he couldn’t bear the thought of his children going to bed without him there to tuck them in and kiss them goodnight.

The stars had begun to appear by the time Halsin arrived. He could still feel the remnants of wild shape sloughing from his legs as he crossed the porch, passing a snoring Auntie Adèle on his way up the stairs—three at a time—to the second floor. He ducked his head into each room until a faint noise made him pause. It was the sound of a woman’s voice, mingled with children’s laughter, seeping through the crack of a bedroom door. Not wishing to disturb them, Halsin peered inside. What greeted his eyes made the corners of his mouth curve softly and brought a stinging moisture of relief to his eyes.

Thank Silvanus—no, that’s not right... thank her.

There, under the warm glow of paper lanterns strung high among the branches, were his charges—listening intently as Tempest read to them.

And a bath too, no less... impressive.

A faint note of strawberry suds still clung to his little ones’ crowns. His children were safe, happy, and contented. His fatherly heart felt light as a feather. Halsin had scarcely taken a day off in the two hectic, eventful years since leaving Baldur’s Gate—unwilling to surrender Reithwin to its own devices, fearing what might become of his life’s work if he failed to watch over it, even for a day.

He knew well the wards in place: rites of bramble and impenetrable illusion, barring the way to those who thirsted for blood, yet parting for any soul seeking refuge. Even knowing how unlikely it was for any threat to bypass such measures, Halsin still could not—would not—let his guard down. Experience, and a lifetime of personal loss on a magnitude few outside his race could comprehend, had hardened his heart. After so many years spent searching for a way to undo the Sharran doom, he feared this callousness had become permanent. Always bracing for the inevitability of impermanence. And yet... the Forest Father had been kind to him these last few years—perhaps too kind. Which meant, surely, that something must soon go terribly wrong.

It cannot last, whispered that shard of unresolved cynicism lodged beneath his ribs—a wound that would never truly heal.

He still feared he might one day wake from this reverie, back to a reality where he was once more deferred to as Archdruid and Master of the Emerald Grove—suffocating beneath the weight of duty, unable to leave. A world where he could hear nature’s endless cries of suffering and do nothing. Overturned by a new generation of druids—those he had once guided but ultimately failed to save. The loudest among them, his disciple Kagha, had driven her venomous fangs into his heart, twisting the Tree Father’s teachings under a shadowed, ironclad fist.

But perhaps I need not face the shadows alone...

Fostering and caring for this little acorn of a dream, he could already see the beginnings of it sprouting—becoming more like an oaken sapling with each passing day. Perhaps now, Halsin thought, he was allowed to reap its rewards—by letting someone else step in to complete what he had begun. His legacy was written plain across the faces of the children he had plucked from the streets of war-torn Baldur’s Gate. He thought back to those early days when his little ones dared not close their eyes at night; how he’d kept watch in his rocking chair, meditating as the youngest of his cubs—barely surviving their first year of life—slept against his chest, their small bodies exhausted from crying.

I can still remember the smell of soot in their hair, and the salt of their tears...

The bear within him nested. Halsin had long believed himself inured to the passage of time, yet lately, he had begun to feel that telltale ache of longing—the fear of never returning to what he once believed could never concern a restless wanderer like him: a home. A place where he belonged. And a home built by his own hands, no less. But he could not take all the credit. Halsin found himself watching, open and unguarded; memorizing everything about the woman, regaling his children with a tale—and not just any tale, but a gentler, age-appropriate retelling of their first meeting. He found it hard to focus on her words. Instead, he lost himself in a pair of storm-faceted opals.

His heart did not stir easily.

But it does now...

Propped up among the cushions as she was, wearing a matching bear onesie beside her partner in crime, Moxie, she reenacted scenes with shadows and spellwork—to his children’s unending delight. Time and again, Halsin found his gaze drawn back to her: to catch the warmth of her smile, to soak in the tenderness of her voice, to bask in the rhythm of the heart beneath her lovely chest. And of course, Halsin was hardly immune to the human woman’s comeliness—vivacious, in full blossom. The sight stirred in more ways than one, even from where he stood, leaned beyond the doorway, arms crossed over his broad chest.

His mind is blank, well at least his consciousness is- the other part of his brain is firing away images and flashes of emotions too fleeting to really latch on and fill him. But the one thing he’s sure of, beyond a shadow of a doubt and despite how…violent it may reveal him to be capable of…

Joel will kill Micah on sight should he ever encounter the man.

The scars were enough of a reason, the implied assault, the actual assault- but to cause an accident in a busy intersection after stalking you through the city? Kidnapping you from your hospital room? Keeping you hostage in a hotel room with no access to anything unless you asked for it? Two whole days. For two whole days you were dealing with a nightmare and he had no idea.

He…he should’ve been there. This shouldn’t have happened.

And it wouldn’t have- if he had just been in a better mood when the two of you were shopping.

Joel is the one who left, walked away from you in a confusion of emotions. Left you vulnerable to the man neither of you had a clue was just around the corner. And that is enough guilt to send him into a spiral as he waits for the coffee to finish brewing.

His mind is just a mess of fleeting images despite the way he clenches his eyes tight against them, growling lowly to ward them off.

They finally fade when he carefully carries two steaming mugs back up the stairs and stands in the doorway to your room and sees you.

You’re sleeping peacefully, body cradled by the soft bedding and wrapped halfway in the plush microfiber blankets you prefer to the top sheet. Your body is on display in the most innocent, intimate way and for his eyes only. The bruising around your temple and one of your eyes lances anger through his chest but the little sigh you make as you shift a leg has him moving into the room with his own.

The mugs clink dully as he sets them on a bedside table, on the side closest to the door- the side he had taken root in as sleep lulled him still just hours ago. He sits there now, legs hung over the edge as he reaches to move the sheet up your body a bit more now that he can see the goosebumps that have sprouted along your arms.

You don’t deserve the things that happened to you- the power play that was enacted on you, the scars that you now bear on your skin. He’d kissed them and murmured how sorry he was into them, soothing them with the care he feels toward you- hoping to help heal them even just a little.

“Mmm, what’re you starin’ at?” You murmur in a slow, sleepy voice as your eyes flutter open for a beat, a yawn overtaking you something fierce.

“Somethin’ pretty.” His eyes melt, the brown of them simmering as they take in the way you stretch, the blanket he just pulled up over you shifting low to expose your chest to him. His eyes trail down to where your chest peaks at the cool air, the urge to lavish attention there strong and he feels himself harden beneath the fabric of his boxers.

“You gonna make good on your promise from last night, Mr. Miller?”

How could he not, even when you’re already awake and he’s got a surprise for you?

But he pauses, reaching for one of your hands and tangling his fingers with yours.

“Sweetheart, I really don’t want to push you or move too fast.” Joel’s brow furrows a little as his eyes turn almost puppy-like. The conflict in him obvious, though it’s nowhere near as intense as when the two of you were talking last night before the damn broke. A look that has your heart stuttering in your chest and you know will be your downfall should he pull it consciously on you.

“I don’t want to take advantage, I don’t want to-“

“Joel, honey,” You bring his hand up to your lips and press them over his knuckles. The thin skin of them scarred and slightly swollen. “I can guarantee you that if I have an issue with something you’ve done, I’m gonna let you know.”

“I just…with your husband-“ He starts, surely what is going to be a solid reasoning in his mind for his shift in willingness to be physical with you after so long and stolen moments that have built up until you both can’t help but reach for the other.

“Ex-husband.” You correct him gently, cupping his hand and resting your cheek there.

to be continued...

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