60. Leandra
My body aches, every movement is a reminder of the pain I’ve endured.
I’m weak, so weak that even sitting up feels like a monumental task.
My limbs tremble as I push myself upright, and the sheets pool around my waist. The room is dimly lit with the soft glow of candles casting flickering shadows on the walls.
I’m not alone.
Lazarus is here, standing by the bed, his presence looming yet strangely comforting. His colours are calm, soft blues and greens, steady and sincere.
“You’re awake,” he says, his voice low and smooth.
I don’t respond. My throat feels raw, my tongue heavy in my mouth. I glance down at myself, at the bruises that mar my skin, the cuts and scrapes that tell the story of my suffering.
I feel exposed, vulnerable and weak, and I fucking hate it.
“You need to bathe,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact.
I stiffen, my heart pounding in my chest. Bathe? Absolutely not.
He steps closer, and I instinctively shrink back, my hands clutching the sheets to my chest.
“Don’t touch me,” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He pauses, his gaze softening. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he says. His colours remain steady, almost reassuring, but that doesn’t make it any easier. He reaches out, his hand hovering just above my arm. “Let me help you,” he says.
I hesitate, my mind racing. I don’t want his help.
I don’t want anything from him, not right now.
All I can think about, all I keep thinking about is how his brother hurt me, how Ezekiel hurt me, how every man has hurt me as soon as they’re given the opportunity to.
I might have fallen for Lazarus in some ways, but I fell for Ezekiel too, didn’t I? And look how that turned out.
But my body is weak, and I know I can’t do this on my own.
Reluctantly, I nod.
He scoops me up effortlessly, his arms strong and steady. I tense, my body rigid against his chest. He carries me to the adjoining bathroom where a large, steaming tub awaits. The scent of lavender and chamomile fills the air, soothing yet overwhelming.
He sets me down gently on the edge of the tub, his hands lingering for a moment before he steps back.
“Can you undress yourself?” he asks, his tone respectful.
I nod, though my hands tremble as I reach for the hem of my nightgown. I pull it over my head, my skin prickling with goosebumps and I wait for that moment, where he reaches for me, where he grabs me, where he does what all of them do and takes pieces of me that I don’t want to give.
But it doesn’t come. He doesn’t even look at me, instead he has his gaze fixed on the wall as he waits for me to step into the tub. What is this? What game is this man playing now?
I do so slowly, the warm water enveloping me like a cocoon. It’s soothing, but it doesn’t ease the tension in my body.
He kneels beside the tub, his hands dipping into the water. He picks up a sponge, soaking it before gently pressing it to my skin. I flinch, my breath catching in my throat.
“Relax,” he murmurs, his touch soft and careful.
I try to but my body remains locked down, my muscles coiled like a spring. He washes me with a tenderness that surprises me, his hands moving over my skin with a reverence that feels foreign.
“You’re too tense,” he says, his voice low.
“I can’t help it,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
He pauses, his gaze meeting mine. “You need to trust me,” he says.
I shake my head, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. “I can’t,” I say. “Not after everything that has happened, not after what you and your brother did to me.”
His expression hardens, his colours shifting slightly, a hint of red flickering at the edges. “That’s in the past,” he says firmly. “You’re my wife now. You’ll be protected. You’ll be revered.”
His words ignite a spark of anger within me. “Like Ines was?” I snap, my voice sharp.
His eyes flash with anger, his colours darkening. “Ines was a bitch,” he says coldly. “She got what was coming to her.”
I freeze as his words chill me to the core. Could he not say the same about me? I’m not exactly being welcoming to his advances right now, am I?
He reaches out, his hand cupping my cheek. “Leandra,” he says softly.
I flinch, pulling away from his touch. “I’m not Leandra anymore,” I whisper.
“You’re not Ines either,” he says firmly.
I look away, a wave of anger and confusion washing over me. Who am I? I don’t even know anymore.
He stands, his gaze lingering on me for a moment before he turns away. “Stand up,” he says.
I hesitate, my legs trembling as I push myself to my feet. I stand naked before him, my skin prickling with goosebumps. He picks up a towel, wrapping it around me, engulfing me in the softest of fabrics.
I watch him warily, my mind racing. Why hasn’t he touched me? Why hasn’t he just taken what he wants already?
He steps back, his gaze meeting mine. “I have someone coming to sort your hair,” he says.
I frown, confusion flickering across my face. “My, my hair?”
He nods. “It’s damaged,” he says. “Do you not want it to be pretty?”
I don’t respond, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. Pretty? What does that even mean anymore? What does any of this mean?
He leaves the room, and I’m left alone with the towel wrapped tightly around me. I sink to the floor, my legs giving out beneath me. I feel hollow, empty, like a shell of the person I once was.
When the door opens again, a woman enters. She doesn’t say anything as she looks at me, but she helps me to my feet, guiding me to a chair by the mirror and I sink down into it, feeling like a ghost, with my gaze fixed on my reflection.
The woman begins to work on my hair, her hands gentle and skilled, and if I could relax then it would feel nice. But I can’t relax. I can’t.
Lazarus returns, standing by the door, and that hammering in my chest grows louder as his gaze fixes on me.
“Choose the colours,” he says, his voice soft.
“Colours?” I repeat, confused.
The woman holds out an array of ribbons and beads, and realise he means for my braids. He wants me to choose them for that. I reach out, my fingers brushing against the purples and blues that match closely with the colours swirling around him.
Is this a mistake? Am I giving in?
I don’t have time to contemplate that because she’s already picking them up, weaving the ribbons in and then slowly adding the beads to the ends.
I watch in the mirror as she does it, watch as my hair transforms from a frizzy mess into something organised, something beautiful, something almost like art.
When she finishes, I stare at my reflection, and my breath catches in my throat. For the first time I’m not sure if it’s Ines’s face staring back at me, but it’s not my face either.
Who am I?
I feel so hollow, so confused, so fucking lost.
A tear streaks down my cheek before I can stop it, and I know he sees it. I know he sees everything.
He steps forward, his gaze meeting mine in the mirror. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly.
I don’t respond, I don’t know what I could possibly say back. Beautiful? What does that even mean anymore?
He reaches out, his hand brushing against my cheek. “You’re safe now,” he says.
Safe? I don’t know what that means either.
“Where is my mother?”
I shouldn’t ask. I know that, but no one has even mentioned her. Is she alive? Is she locked up somewhere in this wretched house?
“She’s dead.”
I spin in the chair, feeling my hair pull from the woman’s hands as I do it.
“Dead?” I repeat.
His eyes narrow in a gesture of sympathy. “She died not long after you were brought here.”
I know who did it. I know Konstantine murdered her. It’s another heinous act that man will not have to face justice for. I clench my jaw, dig my nails into my palms and it’s all I can not to collapse into a complete wreck.
She’s dead. The only person in this world who has ever cared for me.
The only person who has ever risked their life for mine…
but that’s not true, a voice in my head whispers back.
This man right here has risked everything for me.
He’s orchestrated a coup for me. I will make you queen of everything.
Those words echo in my head, but right now they feel more like a curse than a declaration of love.
What does he want with me? What could he possibly want with someone so used, damaged, and broken?
He stares back at me as if he understands that question, and I wonder if he can hear the literal voices in my head. I can’t trust him, can I? I can’t… and yet, some weak, pathetic part of me still wants to.