His clipped answer chips at my content, but I dash those thoughts away, fanning life into this wistful feeling lightening my heart, making it swell.
He’s here, with me, quenching my body and planting hope in my chest.
“How are you still alive?”
“My sword got to them first.”
He releases my wrists, and I’m lifted, limp and listless. Held against his chest with my head rested atop the sludgy beat of his heart, he carries me inside where I’m struck with the botanical medley that lingers in my room. That, and the overriding fragrance of my heat.
My cheeks warm as he winds around the space, past my bed and vanity, until he reaches the tub. He sets me in the icy water—robe and all—the liquid a balm to my flushed skin.
I have to stop myself from pulling him in with me.
“Their talons—”
“Are useless if they don’t land a blow.”
He spins, leaving the curtains gaping enough for me to watch him stride toward the door—bared muscles rippling with each brutish step, his sodden shirt strangled in the tight ball of his fist.
“Wait, where are you going? You’re not leaving, are you?”
He stops mid stride and turns his head so I can see his side profile over the wide breadth of his shoulders.
No eye contact. Nothing but cold detachment.
My stomach gutters before he even starts to speak.
“Remember your promise. And I suggest learning to fuck your own fingers. You won’t be using mine again.”
The words land a crushing blow that bursts my hope into a million mangled pieces.
My next breath is choked.
Knees hugged close to my body that suddenly feels too bare, too vulnerable, I watch him pursue the exit like it’s his salvation.
He pauses at the threshold, a figure of shadow and seething brawn. His head tips for a second, and then he leaves, slamming the door shut—thumping that barrier back into place between us.
My body jerks from the onslaught.
I listen to his descending steps, each beating another nail into my bruised and battered heart. By the time he reaches the bottom, I’m choking on a bouquet of noxious emotions,oneeclipsing the rest enough to leave me shivering despite my fever ...
Shame.
Outside, the world is gray and gloomy. The rain has abated, but the high-hanging clouds are preventing even the tip of my tower from catching light.
I miss the sun; the way it fills me up. I feel like my soul is dripping away—like I’m wilting.
Empty.
It doesn’t help that I woke this morning to a broken fever, which I celebrated for all of two seconds before I realized I smelled like bloody death.
Feeling like I’d peed myself, I’d peeled back the quilt, mortified when I saw a red stain that had seeped through to the mattress. Not only did the entire thing have to be replaced, but I now have a wad of thick, absorbent material stuffed in my undergarments.
Sighing, I cast my gaze across the lumpy clouds and slide off the windowsill, locking eyes with the mannequin standing by the far wall, swathed in a neck-to-floor, blood-red gown.
Wide eyes that stare at nothing.
I bristle.
