Chapter 8 Wren
Wren
It turns out Derrick was right. There wasn’t enough wine to get through that uncomfortably silent dinner.
Heat clings to my cheeks, my head still fuzzy from the glasses I consumed alongside the meal Ryoden made for us.
The entire time I watched him prepare the food and then when we sat to eat, my body was clenched in anticipation of an interrogation.
Instead, the only words he muttered were, “Do you need the salt?”
After we finished, my question of being able to rinse off was met with incredulous surprise.
Of course, Wren. You are being held due to suspicion, but you aren’t an animal in a cage.
Despite my initial relief at the prospect of being able to cleanse these last few days from my skin, I’m now met with a strange contraption that resides within the bathroom attached to his personal room.
The word shower comes to mind as I take in a glass enclosure, but that’s where the information ends.
I probe my brain further, but it feels like poking a bruise between my block in my connection to the earth and the dull headache hitting me.
“Well,” I mutter to myself as I peel off my grime-caked clothes. “How hard can it be to make water come out? I’ve done worse.”
The air against my bare skin is cool and a little unnerving as I step into the enclosure, shutting the glass behind me. The tile is cold under my feet, the space just big enough that my elbows brush the glass if I lift my arms too far.
I stare at the silver fixtures and reach for the lower handle, tugging it toward the left.
Ice-cold water blasts out and I shriek as the frigid spray smacks my face full-on.
Water shoots up my nose, into my mouth and seemingly everywhere at once.
I stumble in my effort to escape the torrent, slipping on the slick tile before I catch myself against the glass with a loud thud that rattles the frame.
The water just keeps coming, relentless, soaking my hair, dripping into my eyes as I splutter and cough, half-choking on it.
“Gods—stop, stop, stop,” I gasp, flailing blindly for the handle.
I finally wrench it the opposite way and the assault cuts off. I stand there shivering, hair plastered to my face, water running down every inch of me in miserable streams. My teeth clack as I drag in a breath and shove the glass door open, stepping onto the bathmat.
A towel hangs on a nearby hook and I grab it like a lifeline, wrapping it around myself and cinching it tightly under my arms. Heat crawls up my cheeks with my embarrassment, warring with the chill clinging to my skin.
A sharp knock hits the bathroom door a second later. “Wren?” Ryoden’s voice carries through the wood, laced with concern. “Are you all right?”
Of course he heard that.
I choke on a mortified laugh as water trickles down my neck. “Define ‘all right,’” I cough out, dragging the towel higher. “Your shower tried to drown me.”
There’s a pause on the other side of the door, then a quiet exhale. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“No,” I admit, adjusting my grip on the towel. “Except maybe my pride.”
Another beat of silence. I can almost picture his expression through the door: that controlled worry, the way his brows pinch just a little when he’s calculating risk.
“What happened?” he asks.
I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified to admit this to him. “I might have…turned the wrong knob and gotten assaulted by freezing water.”
The warmth of the towel does nothing to soothe the way my humiliation prickles along my skin. I stare at the closed door, weighing my options. I can either keep fumbling until I flood his bathroom, or I can admit the truth.
“I don’t actually know how to use a shower,” I say finally, the words said so softly I’m unsure if he even hears them through the door. I try again, a bit louder, “The shower. I don’t know how it works.”
There’s a brief pause before his voice softens in return. “May I come in?”
My fingers tighten on the towel, but there’s something about the way he asks that makes it hard to refuse. I glance down at myself. I’m wrapped securely, nothing visible but damp shoulders, arms, and legs.
My mind instantly drifts back to when I woke in this world, unconcerned about shielding my body. Yet the moments since, when men have cornered me and leered, and today when the guard’s hand touched my skin without consent, have irrevocably changed the bounds of my modesty.
The theme of men being the problem has never been more profound. The way they take and take, even when they have no right. How they fight for control and power, not caring about the innocents in the crossfire.
“Give me a second,” I say after clearing my throat.
I dart back to the mirror, swipe wet strands from my face, and press the towel even tighter around my chest before padding back to the door. My heart thuds faster as I crack it open. Ryoden stands just outside, one hand braced on the frame.
For a moment, he just stares.
Then his gaze drops before he seems to think better of it, skimming over the bare length of my shoulders, the towel clinging to my chest, the water beading along my collarbone.
Color climbs sharply into his cheeks as he drags his eyes back up to my face so fast it’s almost jarring.
His jaw flexes once, the muscle ticking as he swallows, and his fingers tighten on the doorframe like he needs the anchor.
Heat punches low in my stomach, awareness prickling across every inch of exposed skin.
The strange thing is—I don’t feel trapped in this room, despite the vulnerable position I’ve found myself in. Not the way I did in that stone room with the guards, not the way I’ve felt under other men’s stares, hunted or evaluated like a thing to possess.
Ryoden looks like a man who’s very aware I’m half-naked and very determined to act as if I’m not, and somehow that steadies me.
He clears his throat, the sound rough. “May I?” he repeats, even though I’ve already opened the door for him, as if he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind.
I step back to let him in and he moves past me, careful to give me space even in the small room. He doesn’t look directly at me again as he goes to the glass stall still dripping with water.
“Right,” he says under his breath. “Let’s get this going for you.”
He steps into the shower space without closing the glass, bracing one forearm lightly against the wall as he reaches for the lower handle. “This one controls the temperature,” he explains. “Left for cold, right for hot. You just turned it too far left.”
I watch the tendons in his forearm shift as he twists the metal. Water starts again and it hits the tile in a steady stream.
“The water always comes down from the top like this and you stand beneath it,” he says. “It ensures all the dirt coming off is pushed down toward the drain at the bottom, so you are always in clean water.”
He tests the water with his fingers and ever-so-slightly adjusts the knob. His shirt pulls faintly across his shoulders as he reaches, and I suddenly become overly aware of how intimate this feels.
He glances over his shoulder, eyes skimming my face. “You’ll want to stand back when you first turn it on like this,” he instructs. “In case it hasn’t warmed yet.”
“You don’t say,” I mutter, cheeks heating again.
The corner of his mouth quirks up for the briefest second. “Consider it a lesson learned.”
He steps out of the stall, water still running in a warm cascade, and wipes his wet hand absently on his forearm.
I watch the steam begin to curl upward from the enclosure in thin ribbons, feeling absurdly aware of every inch of space between us in this small room.
Of the fact that, in a few minutes, I’m going to be naked in a place he just set up for me, using his soap.
“You’ve really never used one of these before?” he asks, finally glancing my way.
I shrug one shoulder, keeping my gaze on the glass that’s fogging up. “I’ve had…baths,” I say, choosing my words carefully.
One corner of his mouth curves, quick and fleeting. His gaze lingers on my face a heartbeat too long, like he’s filing that away with every other detail he’s collected about me.
“Strange,” he says softly. “You know the word for it, but not how to use it.”
His curiosity feels like a tangible thing in the air between us. It doesn’t feel prying, but it’s there.
“There’s a lot I know of without having experienced it myself,” I admit quietly, feeling comfortable to give him this small admission. “This is on that list.”
He studies me for a moment, eyes searching, as if he wants to ask more. Instead, he clears his throat and takes a step back toward the door, putting more distance between us. The shift is small, but I feel it in the way my shoulders loosen, grateful he didn’t push further.
“Well,” he says, “now you know. I’ll be in the other room. If the temperature’s wrong, don’t tough it out. Adjust it with small movements on that lever.”
I huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
His gaze holds mine one more heartbeat, then he slips out, closing the door behind him with a quiet click.
The room is full of steam now and the air is warming. I can still feel the echo of his presence, the shape of him in this space.
Finally, I let the towel fall and step back into the shower, letting the warmth rush over my skin.
Standing under the hot spray feels like a small miracle now that I know what to expect.
The grime of travel, dried sweat, and the lingering touch of those guards washes down the drain in cloudy rivulets, swirling away until only my pink skin and exhaustion remains.
After drying off, I quickly cover myself with the pajama set Ryoden handed me before my shower.
The light green linen is soft against my skin, the fabric loose and a little too big.
The sleeves fall past my wrists and the drawstring at the waist is cinched tight to keep the pants from sliding down my hips when I walk.
They don’t feel like the clothes a prisoner would be handed, and once again I wonder exactly what Ryoden has planned for me. After cracking the door open and peering in, I find his room empty and quickly beeline back to the hall that leads past the staircase and toward my side of the house.
I stop when I see Eli standing guard next to my open door. Our eyes connect across the open space and he gives me a gentle nod of greeting.
So that’s why Ryoden wasn’t hovering in his room, waiting for me to finish.
Whatever he’s doing now, he trusts Eli to watch over me.
That fact alone is one I mull over as I pass the top of the staircase, watching Eli’s eyes pinch, like he’s silently begging me to not bolt down them.
My eyes linger briefly on the small bathroom I use normally, wishing it had a tub or shower, to avoid being in Ryoden’s space again.
Eli’s shoulders visibly drop as I continue toward him and offer a nod back before padding into my dark room and shutting the door without a word.
It’s a comfortable silence after so many words exchanged between us earlier.
I stretch my legs out along the bed and let my hand rest lightly on my stomach.
The dull ache from earlier has been replaced with a pleasant heaviness.
Real food that Ryoden chose—bread, steak, and broccoli.
I ate every bite this time, not willing to risk another stretch of sitting alone with nothing but hunger and my thoughts.
Of all the places I could have ended up today—of all the hands I could have fallen into with humans—I know, logically, that this is one of the better options.
I think of the space Ryoden has given me since he brought me to his home.
He hasn’t once pressured me into telling him more, despite the small bit I did open up about in his bathroom.
A warmth blossoms in my chest at how much I respect that.
I don’t want it to mean anything. I don’t want to feel this soft pull inside my chest and this quiet urge to tell him a little more tomorrow, to meet him halfway so he doesn’t have to carry all of the doubt alone.
But the more I give him, the worse any betrayal will feel, from me or him.
A lesson I’ve learned painfully with how much affection and desire bloomed between the kings and myself.
I press the back of my wrist to my eyes, willing the thoughts to quiet. My body sinks deeper into the thin mattress as my muscles begin to unwind for the first time in what feels like days.
Sleep doesn’t come easily, my body and mind seeming to toss and turn for hours. I roll onto my side, then my back, then my other side. At some point, my eyes close and stay closed as sleep finally drags me into its grasp.
My dream takes me to the exact same spot I fell asleep in. The mattress dips behind me with a slow, deliberate weight, like someone easing down so they don’t jostle me too much. Warmth brushes the length of my back an instant before a body settles flush against it.
For some reason I don’t feel the need to escape. No fear comes…just a subtle feeling that this is right.
A chest presses along my spine, solid and cool at the same time, an arm looping around my waist like it belongs there.
My breath stalls.
I know this shape. The way his torso fits along mine, the long line of his legs pressed behind mine, and the easy way his arm settles over me to let his hand splay under my ribs.
“Hello, darling,” Riven murmurs against the shell of my ear. “You’re tense. Did you miss me that much?”