Page 138 of She Who Holds My Wrath

My fingertip follows the one curling near his sternum. “What do they mean?”

Korithax stills beneath me. Just enough for me to feel it. His heartbeat changes, too, one hard thud, then another.

I lift my head slightly, looking at him. “The tattoos.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he won’t answer. Then his gaze drops from mine to where my fingers rest against his skin.

“They hide things,” he says quietly.

A chill slips through me at the way his voice sounds so unlike him. “What things?”

His throat bobs as he swallows. “Scars.”

My hand freezes. Korithax says nothing for a long moment. Then, slowly, he takes my wrist and guides my fingers lower, over the tattooed lines that spiral across his ribs. Beneath the ink, I can feel the faint difference in the texture of his skin. Slightly raised in places.

My chest constricts.

“Your father?” I ask, barely breathing.

His eyes close, as if he’s reliving the memories. “And Calrix. They used weapons imbued with magic,” he says in a voice so calm, it sounds detached. “They were designed to wound in a way my body couldn’t heal from. Every cut stayed. Every burn. Every bit of damage they did to my skin, remained.”

I stare at him in horror. “Korithax…”

“Healers weren’t allowed near me.” His mouth twists faintly, but there’s no humour in it. “A future king of Hell was not supposed to need healing.”

Something inside me cracks. He says it like it’s facts. Like it’s nothing. Like the little boy he once was deserved to be left bleeding because tenderness would have made him weak.

“My father believed softness was a disease. Compassion was disobedience. Kindness was rebellion against him and what he stood for.” His eyes open, but they’re distant, staring up at the ceiling instead of making eye contact with me. “Every time I showed any of it, he corrected me. He wanted a weapon, a ruthless king. Nothing more.”

I don’t realise I’m crying until a tear falls onto his chest making his gaze snap to mine instantly.

“Daisy—“

“No,” I whisper, shaking my head. “No, don’t do that. Don’t comfort me because I’m upset about what happened to you.”

My hand resumes its path over his skin with soft touches. My fingers trace the tattoos across his chest, down his ribs, and over every hidden scar he allows me to touch. Every wound someone tried to turn into shame.

“These aren’t ugly,” I whisper. “They aren’t weakness. They’re not proof that he made you into what he wanted.” I press my palm over his head. “They’re proof you survived him. Survived them.”

His eyes shine in the dim light, deep black and full of things he has never learned how to say.

I lean forwards and press my lips to one mark near his collarbone. Then another. And another. I feel him tremble beneath me, and I know it’s not from desire this time.

“Marta helped me sometimes,” he says so quietly I almost miss it. I lift my head to look at him.

“She wasn’t allowed to. But sometimes, when I was wandering Cinderspine, she would find me and bring me into the back of the bakery. She would have salves and stitch what she could. She would pretend not to notice when I struggled to walk.” His voice roughens. “She risked her life to offer me the warmth I craved. To offer me mercy in a life filled with nothing but cruelty.”

My heart twists painfully at the memory of her. Of course Marta, with her sharp tongue and soft hands and heart too big for Hell, found ways to love him when no one else was allowed to.

I brush a hand over his stubbled cheek. “I’m glad she did.”

He looks into my eyes, the emotion in them so raw I have to steady my breathing. “I used to hate them. The tattoos. I thought covering the scars would make them disappear. But I could still feel them, still knew where every single one of them was and why I earned them.”

I release a soft, shaky exhale. “And now?”

His eyes search mine. “Now I don’t know.”

I cup his face between my hands, swallowing hard. “Then I’ll tell you what they are until you do.”