CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR #3
It was clear she and her cousin were officially done after what happened in the Earth Realm. "But really, we're just glad we made it this far and got to shower off all that fucking grime."
"Lucky you," I groaned, my blood boiling at the mention of Jeremy.
A sharp, silver needle of magical energy threaded through the deep tissue of my gash, and I couldn't help it—I screamed. It was a raw, jagged sound that cut through the noise of the tent.
Asher was back at my side in a heartbeat, his hands clenching into fists as his shadows began to crawl up the legs of the medical cot. He leveled a look at the lead healer that made the man's hands visibly shake.
"I'm fine," I gasped, reaching out to pat his arm with a trembling hand, trying to ground him before he leveled the entire medical wing. "I'm fine, Asher. It's just... a lot."
The head nurse didn't look up, her expression grim as she knotted a glowing thread of mana. “This will leave a scar, Princess. The Reaper's taint is too deep for a clean seal.”
Great. Another mark to remember this hell by. I looked at Asher, and despite the grime and the blood, I saw the way he was looking at me—like the scar just made me a more beautiful version of the warrior he loved.
Aether’s panic finally began to settle into a low, protective purr in the back of my mind, and for the first time since the Shadow Realm, I let myself breathe.
Asher let out a long, shuddering breath, the kind that sounded like he was finally purging the air of the Trials from his lungs.
"Don't ever fucking scare me like that again," he murmured against my hairline, his lips lingering in a firm, desperate kiss on my bloodied forehead.
Ember stepped up to my other side, her own face a mess of troll-grime, and took my hand with a squeeze that was far more tender than her voice. "Well, you ready for the Veylaith trials tomorrow?" she asked, her sarcasm a thin shield for the worry in her eyes.
"Gods, fuck no," I rasped.
Once the healers had cleared me—and after Asher had practically interrogated them to ensure I was truly stable—he didn't even give me the chance to stand.
He scooped me up, carrying me through the gawking crowds toward my dorm. It was completely unnecessary, and a part of me wanted to protest, but gods, I loved it anyway. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
He carried me into the bathroom and set me down on the edge of the counter beside the sink.
His movements were clinical but fueled by a simmering intensity as he started peeling the ruined leathers from my body.
He reached for the zip at my nape and pulled it down. As the material fell away from my shoulders, he let out a low, jagged grunt.
"Gods, Ava," he seethed.
I twisted my head, looking into the mirror behind me. My breath hitched.
A massive, angry bruise—a deep, mottled palette of blue and violet—stretched from the base of my neck down to the top of my spine. It looked like a storm cloud trapped under my skin.
I sighed, meeting Asher’s eyes in the reflection. He looked ready to murder the world.
"It’s part of whatever this is inside me," I said softly, gesturing toward the fresh white bandages on my leg. "I fall hard, I bruise hard. I cut."
He breathed out hard through his nose, his jaw tight. "So your body isn't healing? Not at all?"
"Sometimes I do," I explained as he helped me slide the leathers off my arms. "But most of the time, when there's too much magic used... it's like the power fights itself. It attacks my own system instead of fixing it."
His jaw clenched so hard I thought it might snap. "Let's take the rest off."
He helped me stand, peeling the heavy trousers down. He held the blood-soaked, grime-crusted gear with just his fingertips, a ghost of a chuckle breaking through his grimace.
"Gods, we need to burn these."
"Well," I said, a small, tired smile tugging at my lips as I motioned for him to turn around. "Your turn."
He complied, a wicked glint in his silver eyes. I reached for his zip, watching the way his back muscles flexed and rippled under the soot. With my free hand,
I traced a slow line down the dip of his spine. Goosebumps erupted across his skin instantly.
He turned back to me, helping me finish the task, and as the last of the fabric hit the floor, my eyes dipped. He was more than ready for me.
He hauled me up, my legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, but I let out a sharp wince as his hands pressed firmly into the bruise on my back.
"Fuck, I'm sorry—" he murmured, his hands hovering, looking uncharacteristically lost.
"I'm fine," I said, my gaze hardening. I didn't want to be fragile right now.
He just nodded, his expression unreadable, and carried me into the shower.
The moment the hot spray hit my skin, my head fell back. I felt the grit and the blood and the memory of Jeremy’s face washing down the drain. I felt Asher’s stare, heavy and constant, and I looked up.
"What is it?" I asked, my hands moving through his hair to wash out the dried filth.
"You are stubborn, you know that?" he said. I felt the anger flare through the bond—hot, sharp, and seething.
"What?"