25. TWENTY-FIVE #2
Suds cover the surface, shielding his lower half from me as I work soap onto his scalp. I use my fingernails to scrape at the congealed blood, massaging each strand clean before rinsing.
Darius lets out a soft groan that makes my stomach flip. “Fuck, that feels nice.”
I laugh, rinsing the last of the blood from his dark locks. “I’m not as skilled as your attendants, but I have had practice with my little brother.”
“He was lucky to have you.”
No sarcasm or flirting; Darius almost sounds sad.
My hands freeze as my heart squeezes painfully. I was the lucky one to have known Garsif. Known all of them. I wonder if I’ve grown since Fareena’s coronation. Would the woman I am now have been able to save them? If I hadn’t been content to hide from my duties, would they still be alive?
I shut my eyes, burying the urge to cry so deep that no tears dare to escape in Darius’s presence. But when I open them, I find him watching me.
Bits of green are mixed in with the brown of his iris, like the smallest buds on a tree branch. He’s beautiful when he isn’t scowling.
Okay, he’s attractive while scowling as well, but this is different.
Who are you really?
Darius is the man who torched every edge of the continent until the land stood united. I always assumed he was just another Zala, a power-hungry man satiating his desire with the suffering of others.
But Zala wouldn’t have fought his way to my side. Zala could never usher in the fragile peace I’ve witnessed so far.
“Turn around,” Darius commands.
I oblige as water splashes over the edges of the tub again. The slap of wet footprints travels away from me.
“I’m decent.”
I turn around to find him leaning against the counter in nothing but a plush white towel. Decent my ass.
My mouth goes a little dry despite the steamy air.
“You aren’t going to ask?”
“Ask what?” The electricity between us tickles my skin, and my body carries me closer of its own volition.
“About my scars.”
Oh. “Would you tell me if I did?”
We study one another before his gaze drops to the ground. “As a thank you for the bath, I will. I’ve never had an attendant help me before, so this was…different. Nice.”
Darius is the emperor. Men of his stature barely function without the help of others, yet he expects me to believe he cares for himself on a daily basis.
His reactions in the bath were genuine, though, and after Lady Hunter, I understand why he might not allow such an opening. No one’s helped him in our tents yet either.
“What happened to you?” I whisper, tracing another scar with the pad of my finger.
He grips the edge of the counter and takes a deep breath through his nose. Touching him crosses a line, but for once I don’t want to pull away. I want to know the story behind each mark, and a burning desire to inflict matching ones on its giver surprises me.
“Most are from war, but a few”—he nods at the one I am tracing—“are courtesy of my family.”
His scars are deep and angry, healed with no stitches. He smiles at my expression, rage and horror no doubt shining through.
“How could they do something like this to you? It’s their job to protect you.”
His bitter laugh tickles my cheek. “What a lovely dream. Not everyone grew up with such a family.”
I rest both hands on his chest, needing to be close to him for some odd reason.
He closes his eyes. “My father was a cold man, and his second wife and children shared his worst traits. Even though I was the firstborn and my mother the first queen, we were treated as outcasts behind closed doors. No attendants or cooks. Just the occasional assassin and guards who were there to watch us and report back, not protect us.”
He tenses at the memory, heart beating violently under my palm. “My family was vicious. After my mother died, I made it my mission to return every scar.”
His story leaves me with more questions than answers, but one begs to be voiced the loudest. “How did she die?”
He shakes his head, water dripping down his strong jaw. “That’s a long story.”
His lips tip up in a sad half-smile that says I won’t get any more information tonight. Even without an answer, I have a pretty good idea of what happened. What led to his family’s demise.
How incredibly lonely he must have been. Is it better to have loved and lost my family, or to have never felt their love at all? I try putting myself in his shoes. Try to imagine my family as cold and distant instead of the sunlight itself—an impossible image to conjure.
No matter how much their loss destroys me, their memories give me strength. My life is better because I was loved by them.
Darius had no one, forced to seek vengeance against his own blood, the people who should’ve cared for him. Tears sting my eyes.
“I guess I was lucky to get out unscathed,” I whisper.
“Unscathed?” I feel the trail of his gaze as if he were tracing a path with his finger. He nods to my chest. “Just because your scars are inside doesn’t make them any less severe.”
His deep eyes find mine, and the raw understanding there steals my breath.
Is this what it feels like to have the full weight of his attention? With no wall between us? My scarred heart squeezes, demanding oxygen. My inhale is shaky, and the pressure in my chest shifts, changing to something new.
“You still aren’t allowed to touch me.”
His confusion ends when I wrap my arms around his neck, pulling him against me. The hug surprises us both.
The touch isn’t out of pity. I just wanted to show him a fraction of intimacy, so my body moved of its own accord. Our scars call to one another, seeking comfort.
I lay a soft kiss on his cheek, and his scent makes me a little dizzy. Soap and cedar and the remnants of copper.
His fists tighten on the edge of the counter. True to his word, Darius doesn’t take things further. He stands frozen, acknowledging the contact with a low hum.
I press my hand over his heart and step back, a little pleased to find it beating as wildly as mine. “Thank you.”
Without another word, I leave him to get dressed, closing the door between us. I lean against it for a moment, closing my eyes.
I want to know the rest of his story, to get to know the man from the carriage. No masks. No pretenses.
As much as I want to dislike my new husband, I can no longer deny that a small part of me might actually care. When we aren’t fighting or moments away from killing one another, he can be kind of sweet. As thoughtful as he is fierce, and as compelling as he is frustrating.
I trace my lips, unable to stop my smile as I make my way to the open window.
Perhaps the night breeze will cool this strange fever.