Chapter 17: The Whisper of Her Silence
King placed the damp towel back into the basin and leaned slightly forward, his eyes dark with unspoken questions.
"Who did this to you?"
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight. Like thunder smothered under velvet.
Valerie sat in silence, her lips parted slightly, breath shallow. But she gave no answer.
Just silence.
She didn't need to speak—he understood her choice. She wasn't ready. Or maybe she thought he didn't deserve to know.
King straightened, jaw clenching ever so slightly. "You don't want to talk about it. Fine."
He left the room, returning moments later with a basin of warm water, a clean cotton cloth, and a soft herbal soap. "You should clean your face," he said, setting the items down gently. "And wipe your body down. It might help you feel more like yourself."
Her throat was raw, and her limbs were sore. But she gave the faintest nod.
"I'll do it," she said hoarsely.
He didn't press.
King left the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
In the kitchen, he reached for a small steel pot and poured filtered water in. Opening the cabinets, he took out white rice, ginger root, a little salt, and dried scallions. He wasn't known for domestic skills—most of his kitchens were manned by world-class chefs—but porridge… that he could make. His mother used to boil it on cold days when he returned from boarding school sick.
He rinsed the rice with care, slicing a bit of ginger, and dropped both into the pot. He stirred slowly, adding a pinch of salt and letting it simmer. The fragrance soon filled the air—soft, warm, and calming.
Meanwhile, in the guest room, Valerie had managed to sit upright. Her fingers trembled as she dipped the cloth into the warm water. The sting from her wounds met the cloth, but she welcomed it. Each pass over her skin helped ground her, reminded her she was alive.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
She paused.
The bruises. The dullness in her eyes. The exhaustion.
And her mask… gone.
She reached for the shirt King had left her. It was large, black, and soft, his scent still lingering in its threads. She pulled it over her head carefully, wincing as the fabric brushed her bandages.
It fell around her like a quiet embrace.
Just then, the door eased open.
King entered, now holding a wooden tray. On it sat a steaming bowl of rice porridge and a warm glass of lemon water. The simplicity of the meal made it all the more profound.
"I thought porridge would be easier," he said, carefully placing it on the table near her. "Good for your throat."
Valerie glanced down at the bowl. Her stomach twisted—not from pain, but from gratitude.
She hadn't been cared for like this in years.
Valerie lifted the spoon toward her mouth, but her hand shook. A sudden wince crossed her face as she clutched her shoulder—sharp pain radiating down her arm.
King noticed instantly. He crossed the room in two strides.
"You're still in pain," he said, kneeling beside her.
"I'll manage," she muttered.
But he took the spoon from her gently. "You don't have to."
He dipped it into the porridge and blew softly before holding it up to her lips. She hesitated—her pride a quiet wall—but the ache in her body had dulled her resistance. She opened her mouth and accepted the bite.
He fed her slowly, carefully, watching her face with each swallow.
The room felt too quiet. Intimate. The storm outside the large windows had long passed, but a different tension sat between them now—unsaid, fragile.
After a few more spoonfuls, her eyes began to droop. The medicine she had taken earlier was taking effect.
"You should rest," he said softly.
She gave a slight nod, her breathing already slowing. Her head tilted against the pillow, the fever loosening its grip, but not fully gone.
As she drifted into sleep, a single strand of hair slipped across her cheek.
King brushed it away.
His gaze lingered on her peaceful face—so striking in its quiet. Her vulnerability stirred something in him. Not desire. Not even concern. Something… gentler.
Peace.
It had been a long time since he'd felt this kind of quiet in his chest.
He stood and walked out of the room silently.
In the hallway, he pulled out his phone. He walked toward his personal library, nestled at the far end of the villa. As the door closed behind him, he dialed Wayne.
Wayne picked up on the first ring. "Sir?"
"There's a man lurking by the east garden," King said, staring at the security feed on his wall screen. "He thinks he's clever. He's not."
"Want me to send a team?"
King's voice dropped.
"No. Leave him."
Wayne was silent. "Sir?"
"If he thinks he can approach unnoticed, let him think so. But I want his movements recorded, every step. I'll deal with it personally."
"Yes, sir."
King ended the call.
He stood for a long moment, staring at the faint image of the stranger moving beneath the shadows of the trees, unaware his presence was already known.
His eyes narrowed.
No one trespassed here without reason. Not with a woman in his home.
He walked back toward the guest room slowly, the ocean breeze rattling the closed windows behind him.
And for the first time in a long time, the King of the Albanian family didn't think about his empire… but about a woman sleeping just across the hall.