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Blood-covered and shackled to a stone table, my body was littered with a hundred tiny cuts, burns, and puncture wounds scored into my skin. I wasn’t bleeding anymore, and I supposed that was likely a bad thing.
Nicola had lied. I wouldn’t see my daughter free of the Legion. I wouldn’t see her breathe or live or smile. I hated her more and more each passing second—even if she wasn’t the one who made me bleed. Because she was the one who’d made me hope.
Several times I lost consciousness, so I hadn’t a clue how long I’d been stuck in this Hell. It felt like years, decades, centuries of pain, but it was more than likely just days. A commotion echoed outside my cell door, the distinct sound of bones breaking—particularly, a neck snapping. The door opened, and the absolute last person I wanted to see stood at the threshold.
He reached for me, and I scuttled away as far as my shackles would allow. I didn’t want his dirty, murdering hands on me.
Rhys’ face went from relief to agony as he made his way across the room and gently removed my bonds. His hands were soft, but I didn’t want them anywhere near me.
“Don’t touch me,” I rasped, my breath catching in my lungs.
“As soon as I get you safe, you will never have to see me again.”
“Good,” I whispered as he picked me up and carried me into the light.
AURELIA
It takes no time at all to get to our room. And when the fuck did I start thinking of it as “our” room? The bedclothes still in shambles, I head to the linen closet in the bathroom for replacement sheets, dashing the tears from my cheeks on the way.
Of course, I had to cry in front of him. Why not? I’ve already been a basket case and a bitch today. Why not add in an emotional train wreck and round out the trifecta? I snap the sheets on the bed and search for a hamper to toss the soiled ones in. I’m finally rid of them when Rhys slams into the room.
“Why do you blame yourself?” he roars. “Why can’t you put the blame on Iva where it belongs?”
Why couldn’t he just leave it alone? Push. Push. Push. I take a deep breath and finally snap.
“Because she didn’t stab him,” I grind out, balling my hands into fists. “You did.”
“And where would we be if I hadn’t? I didn’t go after him. He came after me. We were already bound. If I let him kill me, you would have died, too. If I let him cut me, you would’ve bled too.”
Rhys tunnels his fingers into his hair and pulls as if he’s ready to rip the strands out from the roots.
“What else would you have had me do?” he asks roughly on a parting shot as he stares down at the floor. After I fail to answer him, he slams out of the room for the second time today.
Trembling, I fall back the few inches until my spine hits the frame of the bathroom door. Shit.
Before I can get myself together, the door opens again, and he’s back—his anger filling the room. He slams the damn thing closed behind him as he plants his feet, his hands in fists at his sides.
“Do you think I wanted to kill him? Do you think I wanted to watch you hate me for the last damn century? Do you think I asked for these fucking scars?” he asks me on a shout as he roughly tugs the collar of his shirt away to reveal thick, white scars against his olive skin. “Do you think I wanted to be tortured for days on end until I said yes to the binding? What makes scars like this on us, Ari? Huh? What makes these scars?”
They start at the middle of his thick, corded neck, disappearing below the dark fabric.
The only thing that could have made those scars permanent is a Morganite knife. It’s why I have two full sleeves, why I have so much ink covering the wounds of torture inflicted by Iva’s hands. The torture Rhys saved me from.
But no one saved him.
No one stopped his torment until Iva got what she wanted. Tears flow freely down my cheeks, dripping from my chin and down to my chest.
Even though I didn’t hear them, his screams of agony echo through my mind. Gritting my teeth, I remember my own screams, my pleas for death. I can’t open my mouth enough to respond. If I do, the keening cry caged in my throat will be set free, and I can’t…
I can’t.
My poor Rhys. What did they do to you?
“I did not ask to be bound to you. I did not ask to tie myself to someone else’s woman. I did not ask for this,” he grits, pleading for me to understand. “And you piling guilt on me, blaming me for his death, is not right. Yes, I feel guilty. Yes, I’m sorry he’s dead. But I’d do it all over again if it meant I didn’t have to kill you. I’d live the last century mired in the guilt of killing him. I’d do it all again if it meant you were breathing.”
“But why?” I croak, amazed I can form the words.
An expression of comprehension dawns on his face, and suddenly, he’s not three feet away, he’s right there in front of me with my face in his hands. Why does his touch feel like a warm blanket around my soul? Why do his words—his truth—heal me in a way I’ve been dying for?
