Chapter Eighty 

Mira

After the whirlwind of our late-night meeting with Satine—her words still echoing like a melody wrapped in secrets—we finally retreated to our chambers. The night air clung to us, heavy with the weight of political maneuvering and whispered tensions. Of course, Obi-Wan and Anakin trailed behind like overly attentive shadows, their concern bubbling over like nervous Padawans.

I couldn't help but grin. They were fussing over me as though I'd just escaped a duel with a Rancor, instead of surviving a very civil conversation. Their fretting was endearing, in its own way—Obi-Wan with his furrowed brow and measured words, Anakin with his restless energy, pacing like a caged Tooka ready to pounce on a nonexistent threat.

Once in my chamber, the handmaidens moved like dancers in a silent ballet, their gentle hands working to unfasten the ornate layers of my gown. Each ribbon, each clasp, felt like shedding the weight of the galaxy for a moment. And there was Anakin, ever the sentinel, standing tall by the door as if he expected an assassin to leap from the shadows. His lightsaber wasn't ignited, but it might as well have been from the intensity in his stance.

I couldn't take it anymore—the sweet absurdity of it all. I turned, now free of the heavy fabric, clad in something soft and simple, and caught his gaze. My voice carried the lilting tease of someone who knew her power over him.

"Ani," I said, drawing out the name like a song. "I'm fine. Really, I am."

His blue eyes softened, but the storm of protectiveness lingered. Oh, how he could be so infuriatingly stubborn—and yet, in this moment, it was as if the galaxy outside the door didn't exist. Only the two of us remained, caught in the glow of a love that could weather far more than the concerns of worried Jedi.

Anakin nodded to the handmaidens as they glided out of the room, their presence as fleeting as whispers on a breeze. His gaze followed them for a moment before shifting back to me, and as I freed the last twist of my hair, his hands found mine. Warm and firm, they held me there, tethering me in his storm. His thumbs brushed over my knuckles with a gentleness that belied the tempest in his eyes.

"I know, love. I know," he said softly, his voice tinged with the weight of a thousand worries he wouldn't speak aloud. "But still, Obi-Wan was worried. I was worried. It's not safe on Mandalore after dark."

I couldn't help but scoff, the sound slipping out before I could temper it. Pulling away from his grasp, I stood, the cool floor grounding me as I crossed the room to my mirror. My reflection greeted me with the same calm resolve I always wore when his protectiveness reared its head, though the flicker of exasperation behind my eyes couldn't be hidden entirely.

Turning my focus to smoothing out the waves of my hair, I answered with a measured tone. "We have some of the best guards following us. Satine trusts her personal guards, and so do I. They're Mandalorian warriors. Strong. Loyal."

I didn't need to look at him to know his expression had shifted. I could feel the shift in the room—the air thickening with the weight of his thoughts. When I finally glanced at him, Anakin's face was darker than the shadows clinging to the corners of the chamber, his jaw tight, and his eyes brimming with something sharp and unrelenting.

"You do know," he began, his voice low but pointed, "that it was a Mandalorian who attacked us. On Coruscant. On Geonosis." His words were laced with a bitterness that cut sharper than a vibroblade. "I can't understand how you can trust them."

His intensity was like a gathering storm, and though his words stung, I met his gaze evenly. He was fire, after all, and I had always been unafraid to dance in the flames.

I smoothed a stray strand of hair, my reflection a mask of calm as I replied, "He was being used by Count Dooku." My voice was steady, though I could feel the tension between us like an invisible thread stretched taut. "You're seeing things that aren't there, Ani."

His sigh was soft but carried the weight of a storm barely held at bay. Before I could turn to face him, his arms wrapped around me from behind, his embrace firm yet tender, like a fortress built just for me. His breath warmed my temple, and then his lips brushed against it—a silent plea, a promise wrapped in affection.

"I just want you to be safe, my love," he murmured, his words laced with both vulnerability and resolve. For all his fire, there was always this: the raw, unfiltered devotion that could melt even the coldest of doubts.

And just as swiftly as he had held me, he was gone. The door closed behind him with a whisper of finality, leaving me in the quiet solitude of the chamber. I remained still for a moment, the space he had occupied feeling strangely empty without him.

His words echoed in the silence, tugging at the edges of my thoughts. What if he's right? I wondered, the question lingering like a shadow in the back of my mind. But I pushed it aside, focusing instead on the reflection staring back at me. Calm. Resolved. Yet, undeniably haunted by the seeds of his worry.