Page 51 of Drown Me Gently

Auren was so overcome, it took him a moment to realize Ulric was kissing him.

A kiss to his forehead. Then his temple. Then Ulric tucked his face into Auren’s hair, the bristle of his beard scraping gently against his skin as he exhaled a shaking breath.

He’s kissing me. He’s touching me. He… he is here.

And for some reason, that only made Auren sob harder.

He clung to Ulric with everything he had, curling into him like a drowning creature latching onto driftwood. He clung until his knuckles went white against Ulric’s chest. Still, no sound escaped him—only the ragged, wheezing breath of a broken creature.

“Drink this,” he murmured. “It’ll counter the side effects of the potion. You’ll be able to speak again.”

He held out a small decanter of clear liquid. Auren lifted his hand to take it, but trembled so violently the bottle nearly slipped to the floor. Ulric stopped him. He took Auren’s hand in his, weaving their fingers together.

“Let me,” he whispered.

Ulric shifted, propping Auren more securely against his chest, one arm wrapped around his back, the other carefully guiding the decanter to his lips.

The first drop was warm, soft as down feathers, and strangely familiar. Like karsa-root broth—the warm, briny Merfolk stew the palace servants used to feed him as a child when he was ill. A comfort food from simpler days.

The familiar taste shattered him.

A fresh wave of sobs wracked through him, body hitching uncontrollably. He choked on the first sip and turned away, unable to hold it in. Ulric didn’t flinch. He shifted the bottle away, curled his arms tighter around him, and held him through it. No scolding. No impatience. Only a steady strength anchoring Auren in place.

Three times, Ulric tried again.

And on the third, Auren finally stilled enough to drink the rest.

All the while, Ulric remained there, closer than he had ever been. Holding him not like a sorcerer, not like a guardian. Something Auren dared not name.

A shield.

A harbor.

Auren stilled in the safety of that presence. The crackle of the fire, the scent of Ulric’s skin, the steady thump of his heart—it wrapped around Auren until the storm inside went quiet. It didn’t erase the pain. But it gave it shape. It gave it reason. It gave it a place to rest.

And as the tears ran dry and his breathing slowed, Auren whispered. His voice was cracked, but finally free from chains.

“…Don’t let go,” he rasped.

Ulric’s arms pulled him tighter.

“Never, my prince.”

Auren only managed to stand once. Just long enough to stumble to the basin while Ulric held him steady, and that alone left his limbs trembling. The rest of the time, he remained tucked beneath thick quilts in Ulric’s cabin, resting on a bed that smelled of cedar.

It was modest. Lived in. The shelves were lined with dried herbs, driftwood carvings, and worn books with softened corners. A fireplace crackled at the far end of the room, casting shadows across the walls. Outside, the ocean hissed against the cliffs.

And Ulric was always there.

The Kraken didn’t leave his side—not once in the five days Auren remained bed-bound. He was either perched on the edge of the bed with a book resting on his knee, or seated in a wooden chair beside the hearth, watching the flames with distant eyes. And when Auren stirred from fevered dreams, nightmares soaked in jars and blood and metal, Ulric was beside him, arms waiting.

“Gentle, my sweet prince,” he murmured, gathering Auren close. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

And gods, how those words stopped the nightmares.

They wove around Auren like silk. That voice could’ve called back the tide. Could’ve commanded storms to still and the earth itself to quiet. It carried the weight of oceans and the hush of sand.

It felt as though Ulric’s words could stop the very sun from rising, if only to let Auren rest a little longer in that safety. Wrapped in Ulric’s arms, his mind finally let go of the horrors—the blood, the jars, the knives—and returned to the one thing that still made sense.