Chapter 9 Carry Me Through
SOUNDTRACK: Fear by Nathan Wagner
~ brEN ~
The castle halls were nearly empty in our residential wing. Everyone was still at the ball.
The royal ball we had missed.
I looked at Donavyn, but he kept his eyes ahead, scanning for danger as we hurried through the castle to the rooms we’d been given in the guest wing for those who weren’t of noble bloodlines.
As we stepped inside that door, he stopped to lock it in our wake, then turned to me. But I stepped out of his reach and kept my eyes on the carpet. “I need to wash before… anything,” I said starkly.
“Bren, there will be nothing that… we just need to debrief. Make sure we have our details straight.”
I nodded. “I know.”
He locked eyes with me and I saw the shadows flickering in his gaze, but then he pushed them back. “You clean up first. I’ll send a message to the king to ask forgiveness for our absence.”
I nodded, torn by a rush of relief, at the same time the clench of fear tightened my stomach at the idea of being separated from him. Which made no sense, because I’d just recoiled from the idea of his touch, though I prayed he didn’t know it.
Determined never to let Ruin step between us again, I marched straight to the bathing room to get clean and wash off any last remnant of that bastard. But I shook my head as I walked.
Ruin… I had truly seen Ruin? More than seen him, clashed with him. Fought. He’d smiled, and taunted, and—
It was all so surreal. And yet, the uneasy weight in the pit of my stomach said those events were very, very real indeed.
A moment later, I closed the door to the bathing room and tried to breathe. To focus. Then began to undress.
Thankfully, the Fyrehold castle had baths with the high faucets, like those in Donavyn’s quarters back home.
But the massive building meant the water ran cold for minutes before it warmed.
As I threw my jacket and shirt into the corner with a shudder, certain they were tainted by that bastard’s touch, I realized I should get the water running, so reached up to open the spout to let it warm.
I waited as the chilled flow poured down into the oversized, enamel bath.
But reaching into it moments later to feel its temperature placed my bare wrist in my line of sight—and revealed a smudge, the size of a thumb print.
Ruin’s hands on my wrists, twisting my body to turn me—
With a hiss, I yanked my boots and leathers off, throwing them into the corner with the others with a slap, then scrambled into the tall bath, almost falling, then plunged both hands under that freezing flow and scrubbed at them, muttering.
I thanked God when the waterflow obscured the marks, but then I drew my hands out and they were still there.
Not just dirt.
Shit. Shit.
—grabbing for the other edge of the mattress, hauling myself forward, but an iron fist clamped on my ankle and jerked me effortlessly back—
My lungs tightened. I swallowed a lump as I looked down and sure enough… another small bruise where the skin was thin over bone.
Heedless of the cold, I planted my body under that frigid flow and grabbed the soap, bending down to wash my ankles and calves… only to find the telltale redness and green rising on the inside of my knees as well.
—flipped onto my back, legs caught in his hands again and pulled ruthlessly apart so Ruin stood between my thighs, hands clamped on my knees, his body bent over mine, pinning me to the bed. I could feel the pressure of his hips—
I whimpered and shook my head. When I wiped my eyes with the back of one wrist, it was already wet, so I only succeeded in making my face wetter.
“He’s not here,” I whispered to myself, clenching my jaw and swallowing more tears. “Get clean. Get out of here. Forget about—” I straightened, giving up on my body, tipping back to get my hair under the water and clawed my fingers through it to rid it of any residue of this night, or those events.
—gripped my hair and yanked my head back—
I sobbed, then hated myself for it. Dropped my face into my hands and just stood there, shivering, the water pouring over me and washing away nothing.
Dammit. Dammit!
“Need to get out of this fucking bath,” I murmured to myself. “Get out and get dry and—”
“Bren?”
I flinched before I registered that it was Donavyn’s deep voice, thick with worry and emotion, shoveling reassurance and love at me through the bond.
I caught myself, but Donavyn had already cursed and started to move. I knew I should reassure him, tell him he’d only startled me, that he didn’t have to worry. But I couldn’t push the words past my throat. And I couldn’t move.
Instead, I watched dumbly as, without another word, Donavyn clawed at his clothing, tearing everything off, heedless of buttons or laces, until he was naked, then he crawled straight into that tub with me, ignoring the cold, wrapping his arms around me, curling himself over me, placing himself under the cold stream, and holding me against his body so that I shivered against him.
“I’m n-not… It’s not c-cold—”
“I know,” he whispered, his lips next to my ear.
—Ruin’s mocking laughter fluttering on my cheek. “You have been training—”
I sucked in a breath and tensed, but couldn’t move. I was gripped. Held. Embraced. But not by Ruin.
“I’m here, Bren. You’re safe. I’m here.”
My shaking grew worse. My limbs trembling, teeth chattering. Except I wasn’t cold. I didn’t feel anything except terrified.
“You used to love it when I touched you.”
With a tiny, strangled cry, I buried my face in Donavyn’s chest, clinging to his waist, nails digging into his back as the sobs choked out of me against my will.
And he didn’t move except to stroke my spine and hair.
He didn’t speak except to murmur his love.
He stood still and steady as a rock, and held me there against him while my mind tumbled back over years, and the sands of life shifted under my feet.
I clung like my life depended on it. Because… on some level it did.
And still we stood under that water, holding each other. And he never moved.
“I hate him!” I spat at one point, my voice high and thin. “I hate him so much!”
Donavyn nodded. “And you should.” A shudder rocked through him. But he didn’t let go.
“I don’t want to be afraid anymore!” I whispered later, when the water had warmed and the room was steamy and damp.
Donavyn stroked my wet hair back from my face, and I finally found the courage to look up and meet his eyes that were crinkled with worry and lined with grief. He stroked my hair again.
And as much as I loved him, as much as he helped soothe my fear, I made myself step back, out of his arms.
He let me go the moment I pushed, but his eyes searched mine, his forehead lined with concern.
“Bren, take a breath.”
“I did. But if he’s going to be here, I can’t fall apart every time he… if I’m reminded…”
“Take another one.”
I blinked because my eyes stung, but I wouldn’t cry again. I couldn’t. If I let myself fall into that pit, I’d never claw my way back out. I shook my head and turned from him, reaching for the soap and mindlessly rubbing it on my body and my hair, unable to think beyond the fact that I felt filthy.
When he took the half-step toward me I froze. “No, I need to—”
“Let me,” he rasped, extended an open palm between us, his eyes intent and locked on mine.
I opened my mouth to protest—I can fucking wash myself! But I felt him. I knew him. And he was here.
I reached out one trembling hand and dropped the soap into his grip.
He blew out a breath like he’d been afraid, then stepped right up to my toes and with a slow, deep breath, slipped the other hand to my shoulder, then under my hair, lifting it from where it stuck to the back of my neck, and gently rubbing the soap there.
He was so large I just stood, staring at his chest, right in front of my nose, muscles rippling and nipples tight because we’d stepped out of the water and the air felt cool on wet skin. But he didn’t complain.
Slowly, softly, tenderly—so tenderly—he laid that slick soap on me, lathering it in my hair, then leaning over me to draw it up and down my back, murmuring only to tell me when to move a limb.
‘Hold my waist and turn around me, get under the water,’ he sent gently. And even though it didn’t seem fair, I did as he said, holding onto him like a buoy in a storm, as I stepped carefully around him in the slippery enamel bath, and put my back to the stream of water still pouring from above us.
My eyes still stung with unshed tears. My throat closed to a pinch.
But my mate… my massive, powerful mate, set the soap aside long enough to run his fingers slowly through my hair, rinsing the soap from it, letting his palms play up and down my spine, ensuring every last bubble was gone, before leaning over to pick up the little cake again and soaping his hands.
Then he started at my right hand, using his thumbs to knead out tightness on my palms. Twining his fingers between mine to wash grime from between them. The lines on his brow deepening when he discovered the bruises on my wrist.
He soaped the limb slowly, tracing fingers and palms gently all the way up to my shoulder and back, then held it under the water before pulling it back to him, and opening his mouth on that spot, kissing it softly. So softly, I blinked away new tears.
And then he washed my shoulders and collarbones. My breasts, my ribs—with a hiss at the bruising evident there. And this time he hunched, curled his large body up and sank into a crouch to brush his lips there, too.
Slowly.
Tenderly.
And so, he continued down my entire body, soaping himself, touching me, washing my skin clean, grief rumbling low in his chest at every bruise that he kissed away.
And I cried, watching him.
I knew I cried. Was aware of my vision blurring. Aware of my chest catching. But in the bond, he whispered to me, and something deep in my heart slowly healed.
‘…so precious, and beautiful and stunning, Bren. I’ll always marvel at you…’