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I don’t even hear what they’re saying around me. I can’t make out sounds or letters or emotion behind their statements. All there is, is the strangulated sounds of my agony. The raw, battered burning of my throat. And the bruising of my knees and legs from kicking and knocking against the tub.
It’s all so terrible, so frightening. And Chekiss had to do this every goddamned day.
Suddenly, I’m being released from the clamps around my shoulders, unhooked from the deadly contraption, and dropped onto the cold tile floor to sob in a wet, pathetic bundle of my own exhausted despair.
And I wasn’t aware before, but the smells of my own saliva, sweat, and now—vomit—are assaulting my nostrils. Because, yes, I’m doubling over, lurching up the rest of my lunch. But thank God for not letting me hurl in the water Aquarus and I both had to swim in.
A pair of hands, warm and calloused, are grasping my shoulders, helping me off the tiled floor, pulling me away from the mess I’ve made.
And when I look up, make out the furious glint in his dark-mahogany eyes through my tears, I know it’s no longer Aquarus. It’s Dessin. And he’s unfurling those wings of murderous rage, plotting the deaths of everyone’s soul in this room apart from mine.
“Hands off of her!” An orderly charges Dessin.
But Dessin puts up a single finger, pointing at the young orderly as if it were a poisonous weapon. As if no one would ever cross that finger.
“Another step and I’ll carve your liver out and feed it to the priest.” There is no questioning this threat. No second-guessing his meaning. The room falls silent, obedient, morbidly watchful.
“I’m carrying Skylenna to her room. If you want to follow me to ensure I don’t make a break for it, by all means. But if she’s touched, harmed, or interrupted while she’s recovering—I’ll know.”
A thousand chills coat my pruney body. This entire experience must have been devastating to watch for him. And I know he must have been watching, if not from behind Aquarus’s eyes.
I’m lifted off the ground, still dripping cold water between the two of us. My head falls to Dessin’s wet chest. And I begin to weep again. Mostly out of relief, gratitude, and fondness for the man that would burn down the world for me.
Before he lays me down in bed, he looks away as his hands peel off my wet patient’s gown, flinging it to the bathtub in my small washroom. As I stand shivering, he wraps me up in a bedsheet, patting me down like a child who’s just taken a bath.
He looks over his shoulder to an orderly. “Bring her a thick blanket. Not one of these pitiful little sheets, but something warm. She’ll get hypothermia if not taken care of properly.”
The orderly stands in the doorway, stunned that Dessin even had the nerve to order him around. But Dessin senses his hesitation, growling under his breath before he whirls on the man.
“Do you want to risk pissing me off at a time like this? You think I can’t get out of here? You think your wife Beverley won’t be the first one I hunt down when I do?” He’s in the man’s face, itching to hurt someone. A human ticking time bomb before he loses it completely.
The orderly doesn’t take another moment to consider Dessin’s warning. He’s running down the hallway, his chubby frame jiggling as he searches for what Dessin is requesting.
He turns back to me, cradling my face before he presses his lips to my forehead.
More tears slip from my eyes, but I hold in the audible sob that wants to escape.
“Lie down,” he commands. “I’ll be back tonight.”
“But—what about the guards outside your door?”
“Fuck the guards.”
I shake my head, feeling sleep fight to yank my eyes closed.
“You can’t ruin the plan,” I utter.
But it’s no use. He’s gone, already back in his room.
~
“You look like a wet cat, baby.”
His voice sinks to the bottom of my stomach like an anchor, guiding me back to reality. I’m not sure how long I’ve been sleeping, but I don’t know if I’ve ever been more comfortable in my whole life. I’m cocooned in several layers of thick blankets, warm, cozy.
But I’m still in the asylum.
I was nearly drowned. Multiple times.
