Chapter 29 Of Chaos #3
Ignoring him, I reached for the soap—a pale oval scented with jasmine and honey—and began to wash myself methodically. First my arms, then my chest, my stomach, each movement mechanical and deliberate. The water clouded with dirt and dried blood, remnants of my captivity swirling away from my skin.
Above the tub hung a small mirror, angled to allow bathers to see themselves.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection and stilled, soap suspended above the water.
The woman staring back was a stranger. Hollow-cheeked, with shadows beneath silver-flecked eyes that seemed too large for her face.
Purple-blue bruises encircled her mouth where Valen’s cruel kiss had branded her.
Other marks—darker, uglier—mottled her neck and collarbone.
I touched my lips gently, watching my reflection mimic the gesture. The flesh was tender, swollen in places where it had split. These were not the marks of passion but of possession… Visible reminders that my body belonged to him.
“He certainly left his mark, didn’t he?” Kassimir commented, still watching from the doorway. “Though I must say, it lacks his usual... merciless charm. Perhaps he’s grown fond of you.”
I ignored him, focusing instead on my hands as I scrubbed them beneath the water. Dirt had embedded itself beneath my nails, outlining them in black. I scrubbed harder, using my thumbnail to dig under each nail, watching as dark crescents should have given way to clean beds.
Except they didn’t. No matter how hard I scrubbed, the darkness remained, stubborn and accusing.
I scrubbed more frantically, my movements losing their methodical quality as panic rose in my throat. My nails had to be clean. I couldn’t attend a feast—couldn’t sit at Valen’s side—with filth trapped beneath my fingernails like evidence.
“They won’t come clean,” I muttered, more to myself than to Kassimir. My breathing quickened as I scraped harder, drawing blood from my cuticles.
“What won’t come clean?” Kassimir asked, his tone shifting slightly. For the first time, he sounded genuinely curious rather than mocking.
“The dirt.” I held my hands up to the light, examining each nail with growing desperation. “The blood. It’s under my nails. On my hands. I can’t—“ I broke off, plunging my hands back into the water and reaching for a small brush meant for scrubbing fingertips.
Kassimir straightened from the wall, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “There’s no blood on your hands,” he said, his tone surprisingly gentle. “You’re clean. Stop before you hurt yourself.”
But I couldn’t stop. Some part of me knew he was right, that the stains I saw were imaginary, but the compulsion to scrub was overwhelming. My nails raked across my hands, leaving raw, red marks in their wake. The pain was distant, secondary to the driving need to be clean.
I couldn’t breathe. The walls of the bathing chamber seemed to press inward, the air thick and suffocating. The jasmine scent that had once been comforting now choked me, cloying and oppressive. The water that had felt so luxurious moments before now seemed to weigh me down, to trap me.
Without conscious thought, I slid beneath the surface of the water, letting it close over my head. The world became muffled, distant. My hair floated around my face like seaweed, obscuring my vision. I kept my eyes open, staring up through the wavering surface at the ceiling beyond.
I held my breath until my lungs burned, until spots danced at the edges of my vision.
There was a strange peace in it—this controlled drowning, this small rebellion against my body’s instinct to survive.
I could choose this. I could decide when to breathe, when to surface.
When to not. It was the only choice left to me.
The urge to breathe grew stronger, a pressure building in my chest, but I resisted. Just a little longer. Just a few more seconds of peace.
My lungs began to spasm, my body fighting against my will to remain submerged. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. Still, I stayed under, testing the limits of endurance, flirting with the edge of consciousness.
Then, just as darkness began to creep inward from the periphery of my vision, strong hands plunged into the water, gripping my shoulders and hauling me upward. I broke the surface with a gasp, water streaming from my hair and face as I gulped air into starved lungs.
Kassimir’s face hovered inches from mine, his golden eyes no longer amused but sharp with annoyance.
“I said no foolishness,” he hissed, his fingers digging into my shoulders hard enough to bruise.
“Do you think death would free you from him? Vharok is a God. One of the first. There is no escape—not through death, not through madness.”
I blinked water from my eyes, oddly calm now that the momentary spell had broken. “I was merely washing my hair.”
His grip tightened, and for an instant, his skin took on a golden sheen, heat radiating from his hands. “Do not play games with me, Princess. I am not as patient as Vharok, nor as interested in your continued existence.”
“Then why stop me?” I asked, genuinely curious.
Kassimir’s expression shifted, the anger receding behind his usual mask of detached amusement.
He released me, stepping back from the tub.
“Because Vharok would be displeased. And contrary to what you might believe, I have no desire to incur the wrath of the Blood God. Now finish your bath. We’re expected soon. ”
He turned and left the bathing chamber, though I knew he remained in the bedroom beyond, still guarding, still watching.
His words about Vharok—Valen—being one of the first gods was something I would have to revisit, but for now, I sank back into the cooling water, methodically finishing what I had started.
Soap. Rinse. Oil for my hair. Each action performed with mechanical precision, preparatory rituals for whatever performance Valen had planned.
The blood remained beneath my nails.