Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Alice
Darius pulled me onto his cot.
My heart slammed against my ribs. I should have pushed him away. He was injured. Weak. One wrong move could reopen his wound and undo everything Doc had done.
But his hands were in my hair. His lips were on mine. And every reason to stop melted away like morning frost.
I needed this. Needed him.
More than I’d ever needed anything.
He’d told me not to save him again. He’d pulled away, dropped my hand, made me feel like a fool for caring.
But now he was kissing me like I was air and he was drowning.
And I kissed him back like my life depended on it.
He winced, and I pulled back immediately. Guilt slammed into me. What was I thinking?
“We shouldn’t be doing this.”
“Why not?” His voice was rough.
“Because you’re hurt.” I glanced down at his cot. Blood had seeped through his bandages, staining the thin mattress beneath him. This was my fault. I’d let myself get carried away. “And you’re bleeding again. You need clean bedding.”
He groaned and let his head fall back.
Part of me wanted to climb back onto that cot and finish what we'd started. The smarter part—the part that wasn't an idiot—reminded me he was bleeding through his bandages.
“Put your arm around me,” I said.
“Are we going somewhere?”
“My cot. It’s cleaner.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “And then we can pick up where we left off.”
Heat crept up my cheeks. Did I still want that? Yes. God, yes. But wanting and having were two different things, especially when the man could barely stand without bleeding through his bandages.
I didn't answer, just slipped my arm around his waist and helped him stand.
He took small steps as we headed over to my cot. I tried not to notice how solid he felt against me—the warmth of his skin, the weight of his arm across my shoulders. Tried and failed. I lowered him gently onto my cot.
He clasped my hands and pulled me closer, sealing another kiss on my lips. No, this was too fast. He was too weak, and I wouldn’t be responsible for him regressing in his healing.
I wiggled away from him, which was harder than it should have been. His hand lingered on my arm, reluctant to let go. When his fingers finally slipped away, I felt the loss like a cold draft.
“Just sit.”
He watched me with those silver eyes, something unreadable in his expression. I turned away before I could do something stupid and immediately stripped his cot. His sheets and blankets were damp from sweat and blood. “Where do they put the dirty laundry?”
He pointed. “Over in that metal bin next to the waterfall.”
I hurried over and nearly gagged. The bin reeked—a thick, rancid mix of old sweat, metallic blood, and mildew. Blankets and sheets were crammed inside, piled almost to the rim.
Next to the bin was a full bottle of Brillig Buggles and a scrub brush. I assumed that was laundry soap.
Men. Clearly, laundry wasn’t high on the rebellion’s priority list.
I found some sheets and blankets in a nearby wooden chest. I returned to Darius’ cot and glanced over at him, half expecting—hoping?—he’d still be watching me.
He had fallen asleep and was stretched out on my cot.
Something in my chest deflated. Good. This was good. He needed rest more than he needed... whatever we'd almost started. I left him alone and quickly prepared his bunk with clean bedding.
His bandages needed to be changed. I headed over to where Doc slept and found some clean bandages and a pair of scissors on a nightstand. On a smaller table nearby sat a small bottle—the same one Doc had used on Darius' wound. Some kind of antibiotic, I assumed.
I headed back. Darius’ soft snores rose and fell in a steady rhythm. He looked peaceful. Younger somehow, with the hard lines of his face relaxed.
I hated to disturb him. But this needed to be done. And hopefully he'd be too tired to pick up where we left off. I wasn't sure I had the strength to resist him twice.
I watched him for a moment. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm. His snores hadn't faltered. Maybe I could do this without waking him. It would be easier that way—no silver eyes watching me, no rough voice making me forget why this was a bad idea.
I carefully cut away his bandages and tried to pull the dirty ones free. It wasn't easy. He was a big man, solid muscle, and I had to slip my hand beneath his back to retrieve the wrappings. His skin was warm against my fingers. I held my breath, waiting for him to stir.
Nothing. Still asleep. Good.
“Would it be easier if I sat up?”
I jumped, jerking my hand back. I glanced up at his face, hoping I could keep this professional. Remember he was wounded. "Did I hurt you?"
“No.” He placed a hand on the cot and tried to push himself upright, groaning with the effort.
“Stop. Let me help.” I clasped his arm and eased him up. “Just ask for help, Darius. You don’t have to do everything alone.”
He didn’t answer. But something flickered in his silver eyes—dark and hungry. The same look he'd given me before he kissed me.
My mouth went dry. So much for keeping this professional.
I dipped a cloth in clean water and wiped away the blood seeping from his wound. Darius stiffened. The ugly blackness that had spread through his veins seemed to have faded. Relief flooded through me.
“It doesn’t look as wicked.”
“Doc’s remedy helps.” He watched me work, and I felt the weight of his gaze like a soft caress. “This isn’t the first time one of us has been hit with a poisonous arrow.”
My hands stilled. “How many times have you almost died?”
He was quiet for a long moment. “I stopped counting.”
I didn't know what to say to that. What could I say? I just looked at him—this man who'd survived so much, alone, for so long—and something shifted in my heart.
“How long has this rebellion been going on?”
“Since the Cormacs invaded.” His voice was flat. Tired. “The queen’s father was a cruel man. His daughter’s not much better. We’re lucky to have found the Nowhere Grotto, but others haven’t been so fortunate.”
A pit formed in my stomach. How many people had suffered under their rule? How many had died?
“Do you think you’ll ever be able to overthrow the queen?”
“I honestly don’t know.” His silver eyes met mine—distant, like he was reliving every nightmare this realm had given him. “But nothing would ever make me serve her. I’d rather be dead.”
The quiet determination in his voice chilled me. He meant it. Every word.
I uncapped the ointment and spread some gently across his wound. He swore softly under his breath.
“Sorry,” I murmured.
“Don’t be.” He exhaled slowly. “Pain means I’m still alive.”
That was so cold. So hopeless. My chest ached for him—for the man who'd learned to measure his survival by how much he hurt.
I carefully wound the bandages around him, trying not to cause more pain. He didn’t curse or groan or hiss.
I tied off the bandage as quickly as I could. Done. I should leave now—let him rest, put some distance between us before I did something I couldn't take back. But my hands lingered on his skin, reluctant to pull away.
“Maybe you should rest a little more.”
“Maybe just a little.” His voice was already fading.
He lay back and closed his eyes. Within seconds, his soft snores filled the quiet.
I watched him sleep for a moment—the rise and fall of his chest, the way his face relaxed, the dark hair falling across his forehead.
He looked almost peaceful. Almost safe.
I pulled a blanket over him and turned away before I could do something foolish. Like kiss him again.
I looked at the bin. Those definitely needed to be washed. I thought about using my magic, but the last time I did, I flooded the laundry room. Suds and water everywhere. Tinker Bell hadn't let me forget it for months. No—better to do this the old-fashioned way.
I left Darius sleeping and hunted for more bins, finding two empty ones in the corner of the cavern. I hauled them over and filled each one with water from the falls—one for washing, one for rinsing. The waterfall was their drinking supply and soapy water would ruin it.
I emptied some Brillig Buggles into the washing bin. The sheets were soaked with blood, so I added an extra splash for good measure. Hopefully that wouldn't backfire.
White suds erupted from the water, frothing and swirling, rising toward the ceiling in lazy spirals. And then—singing. Tiny, high-pitched voices drifting up from the bubbles.
Scrub, scrub, rub-a-dub!
Dirt and grime into the tub!
Stains away, stains away!
Brillig Buggles save the day!
I stared. The bubbles were singing. Of course they were. Because nothing in the Elder Dimension could just be normal.
Some of the bubbles popped against my nose, leaving behind the scent of sunshine and fresh linen. Others drifted past my ears, giggling as they floated away.
I shook my head and got to work.
I found some rope near Grump’s bunk—hopefully he wouldn’t mind—and strung it between a coat hook and a table leg. Not elegant, but it would hold.
I dropped Darius’ sheets into the bin. The bubbles attacked the fabric immediately, swarming the bloodstains like tiny soldiers. I scrubbed with the brush, and slowly—almost magically—the stains faded away.
I fell into a rhythm. Scrub, rinse, wring, hang. Scrub, rinse, wring, hang. The Brillig Buggles sang their little song each time I added more soap, swirling around the stains until they surrendered.
By the time the bin was empty, sweat dripped down my temples and my arms trembled with exhaustion.
I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. I probably needed another wash myself—except these were my only clothes.
The cave door slid open and the Uncrowned filed in, Caterpillar and Chester among them. They moved like soldiers returning from a mission—weary but alert. I straightened, resisting the urge to step closer to Darius. Grump headed straight toward me, his dark eyes sweeping over the cavern.
“What did you do?”
I stood and wiped my wet palms on my tunic. “What does it look like? Laundry. Your bin was overflowing and smelled like something died in it.” I lifted my chin. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”
His gaze flicked from me to my makeshift clothesline, sheets and blankets dripping onto the stone floor.
“No.” His voice was gruff, but something shifted in his expression. “But you didn’t have to do that.”
Was that... approval? From Grump? I wasn't sure whether to be pleased or suspicious. Maybe both.
“You’re right. I didn’t.” I shrugged. “But it needed to be done. And no one else was doing it.”
He stiffened, his jaw tightening. “We’ve had more important tasks than laundry.”
“I get that. I wasn’t judging.” I held his gaze. “But you need clean bedding. Disease can cut a man down just as fast as an arrow.”
Some of the anger in his eyes faded. “You’re right.” A pause, like the words cost him. “Thank you.”
I gave him a small smile. “Was that hard to say?”
He didn’t answer. Just motioned with his hand. “Dreamer and Thorn, come over here.”
Two gruff men jogged over to us. One was wiry with dark circles under his eyes. The other was broad-shouldered with calloused hands stained green—like he’d been working with plants.
Grump tilted his head toward the bins. “Empty these outside and bring them back in.”
They nodded and got to work without question.
I exhaled quietly. I'd been dreading trying to haul those bins outside myself—assuming I could even find the way out.
“I need to change and wash up.” I glanced down at my damp, sweaty tunic. “Is there a smaller bucket I could use to wash my clothes?”
“We’ll find something else for you to wear.” He strolled away without another word.
I stared at his retreating back. Would it kill him to finish a conversation like a normal person?
A grin materialized beside me, followed by golden eyes.
“Clean sheets. Fresh linens. A woman’s touch in a den of wolves.” Chester’s body appeared, holding out some tights and another tunic. “The men don’t know what to make of you, little witch. A stranger who scrubs instead of schemes.”
Something in his words caught beneath my ribs. A stranger. That’s all I was here. All I’d ever be.
“Thank you, Chester.” I took the clothing, the fabric soft against my roughened fingers. “I don’t know what to make of me either.”
The admission slipped out before I could stop it—too honest, too raw. I turned away, busying myself with folding the tunic, and frowned as I counted backward through the haze of days in this place. When was the last full moon? How long since I’d fallen through the mirror?
A laugh escaped me, brittle and strange.
“Laughter?” Chester’s voice curled with curiosity.
“Can I tell you a secret?” I didn’t know why I asked. Maybe because he was the closest thing to a friend I had in this mad world. Maybe because I needed someone—anyone—to know.
“If you wish, little witch.”
My throat tightened. “Today’s my birthday.”
The words hung in the air between us. Chester’s grin faltered—just for a heartbeat—before stretching back into place. But something shifted in those luminous eyes. Something almost... soft.
“A birthday,” he murmured, “spent washing linens in a demon’s keep.”
I shrugged, blinking hard against the heat building behind my eyes. “I’ve had worse.”
Chester tilted his head, studying me with an expression I couldn’t read. He didn’t argue. Didn’t offer hollow comfort. He simply watched, and somehow that was worse—the quiet acknowledgment that he believed me.
His fingers brushed my wrist—brief, deliberate. Then he stepped back and faded, his grin the last thing to vanish. But his voice lingered, drifting like smoke.
“Happy birthday, little witch.”
The kindness in it nearly undid me.