The word is barely sound. More breath than voice.
He scrubs his palm against his linens. Once. Twice. Harder. As if friction can erase memory. As if pressure can grind guilt out of flesh. But it only smears darker.
“Look at me,” she demands this time, and he pulls his eyes away from the evidence.
Black blooms in his irises. As if the Decay senses violence and uses it as leverage to take control.
“I can still feel them,” he says hoarsely, averting her gaze.
Not looking at her. Not looking anywhere. He doesn’t need to say who—it’s clear in the way his voice falters.
“My hands remember how easily they broke.”
His jaw locks.
“I don’t deserve?—”
He swallows hard.
“This place. This warmth.You.”
But Elyssara doesn’t let him retreat. She steps into him without caution. She lifts his hand again, but this time she doesnot kiss the clean skin. She presses her lips directly over the dried blood. Slow. Reverent. Unflinching.
A kiss to purge his pain. This is not forgiveness. This is awareness. Acceptance.
Witness before absolution.
She will not let shame become another god he worships.
“Remove your clothing,” she breathes, never looking away from him.
He doesn’t move, but his eyes find hers again, the darkness spreading like a disease, spurred on by his self-hatred.
“Remove your clothing, Kael,” she demands, voice pitched low and controlled. “You kneel forme. Notit,” she spits with disgust. “There is no force stronger thanthis,” she pleads, pressing his hand between her breasts. “Now, remove your clothes.”
This time, he obeys.
His eyes narrow into tormented slits as he pulls the tunic over his head in short, jerky movements—a battle within himself. Desire clashes with deservingness. War with want. He shucks off his tunic, and it snags on a jutting rock.
He stands tall, proud. But Elyssara doesn’t miss the way his chest rises and falls too fast. The way he holds back. Scared to touch her.Scared to hurt her.
But he found her—waited for her—to emerge from the darkness. To let the wounds close. To allow fury to burn from her marrow.And she’ll do the same for him.
She’ll reach for him in the darkness.
She’ll find her way to him.
She willnotlet him sink into the shadows.
In the glow of guttering candlelight, Elyssara drinks him in—the skin markings that span his chest, dripping down both arms like spilled midnight made flesh. They do nothing to hide the honed frame he’s earned from years of training. The ripplesthat form into a V and disappear beneath the pants hanging low on his hips. The chest that flexes and twitches with every movement.
He’s magnificent.
A masterpiece painted by the Stars themselves.
Elyssara’s breath hitches at the sight of him.
A single chocolate-brown wave falls forward over his brow, and somehow, it softens him.
