The Divorced Military Queen Awakens (by Sadie Baxter) novel Chapter 712

Chapter 712 Childlike Gratitude 
Quinn smoothed a hand over Dawn’s hair. “Then, next time you see Verity, make sure to thank her properly.” 
A dull ache warned her how easily adult spite could stain a child’s kindness. She refused to let that happen. 
Quinn recalled the girl from that afternoon–wide eyes, shrinking posture. Nothing about Verity had hinted at malice, only shyness. 
Dawn nodded hard. “Okay.” 
The kindergarten gate looked absurdly tall from her wheelchair. Dawn stood beside her, neck craned back, lips parted in a soft oh as a painted cardboard giraffe winked over the railing.

Quinn felt Dawn’s tiny fingers twitch against her palm–half eagerness, half fear. The child’s new backpack creaked when she rocked forward on her toes, testing her courage, bright tassels brushing Quinn’s knee. First day, Quinn reminded herself, and the first time the girl would spend hours without a familiar face nearby. 
A glossy brochure for Jexburgh Academy still occupied the side pocket of Quinn’s bag, edges dog–eared from her own indecision. She had closed the brochure that morning and told the driver to head downtown instead.

Public classrooms, scuffed floors, kids who chased one another until they were breathless–that was the life her daughter needed if she was to belong to this world, not the glass bubble of aristocratic etiquette lessons. 
Quinn pretended not to notice the man in a delivery uniform who lingered by the flowerbed, or the woman arranging bike helmets yet never cycling away. She trusted the Whitethorn residence’s covert guards to stay invisible, but the knowledge still warmed the back of her neck as Dawn vanished inside the building with her teacher. 
The moment the school bell clanged, the driver wheeled her toward the rehabilitation center across town.

Passing glass windows reflected a woman she barely recognized–pale cheeks, eyes too large in her face, and legs that remembered how to walk only when begged. 
Before the accident she could sprint five flights of stairs without breathing hard.

Five years in a hospital bed, then the grueling hours of childbirth while half–awake, had hollowed her muscles until they trembled under their own weight. 
Her trainers wrapped sensors around her calves, murmured encouragement, fed her tonics the Whitethorn family imported overnight.

She gripped the parallel bars, sweat stinging her eyelids, and–inch by aching inch–lifted both heels. Today she stood unaided for an entire heartbeat longer than yesterday. 
The lead therapist sucked in a whistle, jotting an exclamation mark on the chart. “Extraordinary,” he muttered, almost offended by the impossibility of it. His disbelief slid off 
Quinn’s skin. She needed more than surprise; she needed freedom. 
Yet every progress marker still felt glacial. Dawn would finish an art project faster than Quinn could straighten her back. 
Quinn’s nails pressed half–moons into her palms Faster, she begged her body, just a little faster. 
Because unfinished tasks crowded her thoughts like birds clamoring to burst from a cage. 
She owed Dawn five stolen years–years of scraped knees to kiss, mountains to climb, paper kites to chase until strings cut their fingers and laughter dissolved in wind. 
And Julius. She wanted to meet his stride without a chair between them, to reach for him without tilting upward like a child seeking help. 
“Solid progress,” a baritone announced behind her during cooldown stretches. “Keep at this pace and you’ll be walking unassisted soon.” 
Quinn twisted around. Dr. Gavin Huxley stood just inside the doorway, hands buried in the pockets of his lab coat, as though he had materialized from the antiseptic air. 
“What brings you here?” Her voice came out even, but her shoulders stayed tense against the mat. 
“Checking on my favorite patient,” he said, eyes scanning her face for exhaustion and finding color instead. A small nod. “I heard your eldest brother came back to Celosia.” 
“He did. He’s keeping Uncle Caleb updated.” She wiped her forehead with a towel. “But you didn’t cross town just for family gossip.” 
He lifted one brow, conceding the point. Secrets rarely survived longer than a breath around her. 
“How are things with Julius?” He dropped the question like a stone in still water. 
“Comfortable.” A shy warmth pulsed in her ribs. They stole kisses behind half–closed doors; his arms circled her waist, but each time his breathing roughened he would pull away, murmuring about waiting until she was stronger 
The memory burned and sweetened all at once his shoulders tensed, his mouth hovering millimeters from her skin, desire throttled to protect her and torturing them both. 
Look, don’t taste. The phrase flitted through her mind and she nearly laughed at the cruel accuracy. 
Gavin’s gaze sharpened. “Then what’s your take on his refusal to lift the hypnotic block?” 
She rolled a resistance band between her palms. He has reasons. After what happened to his father, he sees love as a liability. Before us, he planned a solitary life.” 
For the man he used to be, falling in love wasn’t a blessing; it was a snare with teeth. 
Gavin hesitated, tongue pressing against his molars, weighing words that might wound. 
“What?” Quinn pressed. “Say it.” 
“He may believe,” Gavin began slowly, “that he doesn’t deserve to love you–or to be loved by you.” 
Her brows knit together. The rubber band stilled. “Explain.” 
He exhaled, long and sorrowful. “Deep down, Julius blames himself for everything that happened to you. If he hadn’t let you into the feud between him and his father, you would never have hovered between life and death.” 
Quinn felt the hush in the therapy room press against her ears, and she did not try to break it. 
Since she had come back, she had sensed an almost instinctive flinch in Julius whenever canceling the trance was mentioned; she had guessed at pride, at fear, but guilt—she had not thought of that. 
“So… is it really guilt? His father was the one who made the mistake, not him,” she said, the edge of protectiveness slipping into her voice before she could damp it. 
“You and I both know that, but he’s wedged himself into that corner. Give him time to crawl out,” Dr. Gavin Huxley answered, elbow propped on the window frame. 
Quinn nodded once, firm. She had never meant to shove Julius. 
Gavin’s gaze sharpened, playful. “Since you came home, he seems steadier. Are you two sharing a bed again?” 
“Mm.” The small sound felt safe–until his next sentence caught her off balance. 
“Your body can handle sex now, but pregnancy is another story. Use protection.” 
For a beat, she stared at him. He really had said that. 
Warmth flushed over her cheeks, quick and uninvited. 
She refused to elaborate. 
They were husband and wife; whatever happened between them was theirs alone. 
She offered a vague nod, letting the topic die. 
After rehab, she showered, changed into loose linen, and stepped into the hall–only to find Gavin still waiting.