Page 50 of Drown Me Gently

Ulric wrapped Auren’s limp body in his cloak, holding him close, shielding him from the nightmare surrounding them. Elias hung from the wall like some macabre portrait, blood trailing in thin, glistening streams—Ulric turned away.

He carried the prince of the sea out of that place of ruin and rot, out of death’s waiting hands, and into the dark embrace of his arms.

Auren expected the pain to greet him. But his awareness of the world came first through scent.

Pine and linen. Smoke and sea-brine. It was comfortable. Warm. Then another scent, one that rivalled all the others. That sparked understanding in his brain like the pop of a woodfire.

A wild scent. Deeply familiar. Boiling tides over volcanic stone. The chill of the blackest ocean canyon. It was the scent of the deep, here to run a salve over his wounds.

It crawled into his lungs, coating them in a healing balm.

For a moment, Auren thought perhaps he was dead. Maybe this was Poseidon’s mercy after all. A final kindness—a phantom scent to carry him gently into the dark. Auren thought it fitting that his last memory be the scent of him. Of Ulric. Of his sweetest regret.

But it didn’t fade. And neither did Auren.

He breathed easier. Warmth spread through his limbs. The ache remained, but it no longer swallowed him whole. Slowly, he blinked, focusing enough to catch the sway of sea foam curtains rustled by a breeze. A window cracked open, welcoming in the cry of gulls and the crashing lull of waves.

Auren lay on a proper bed. Not a table. No cold iron and tight restraints. Thick blankets covered him, tucked tight around his battered frame. A hearth crackled nearby, radiating a gentle heat that sank into his bones.

He didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare break what had to be an illusion created by his own delirious mind.

What is this place?

A door creaked behind him. Boots on wooden floors. Auren didn’t have the strength to turn, but when the figure stepped into view, his breath caught.

Black linen trousers, worn leather boots, and a loose dark shirt unbuttoned to reveal a torso of swirling tattoos. His hair was damp, curling wild and loose. And his eyes, those deep, dark eyes, were fixed on Auren.

Ulric.

No. That’s not possible.

His mind reeled.

I’m dead. This is a trick of my dying brain. One last memory of him before I slip away.

Because surely, no vision, no memory, could conjure the shine of tears in Ulric’s eyes.

Tears in his eyes… for me.

The illusion didn’t vanish.

“You’re awake. Welcome back, young prince.”

And at the sound of his voice, the tears finally escaped the confines of Auren’s eyes and fell freely. This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t the illusion of death.

He’s here. He came back for me.

Ulric crossed the room in three long strides. He dropped to his knees beside the bed and took Auren’s limp hand in both of his.

Warm. Solid. Real.

“You’re awake,” Ulric breathed. His hands tightened around Auren’s, the tremble in them unmistakable. “Gods, you’re awake. I thought—I thought I’d lost you.”

The dam broke with a shudder. Auren sobbed, his whole body shaking with the effort. Not from pain, but from release. From the overwhelming, impossible reality of being alive.

Ulric climbed into the bed beside him, boots tossed to the floor, coat shrugged off to settle around both of them like a second blanket. His arms curled around Auren with so much ease; it was as though he’d pictured holding Auren this way a thousand times.

“I’ve got you,” Ulric whispered, voice rough as waves on stone. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now. It’s all over.”