Chapter 8 Senna
SENNA
The sound of Darian's snoring fills the small bedroom like the rasp of rusted metal against stone.
I lie still in the pre-dawn darkness, staring at the water-stained ceiling while he sprawls beside me, one heavy arm flung across the space where I'd been sleeping an hour ago.
I shifted away slowly, carefully, until I was pressed against the edge of the mattress with enough room between us that I could pretend I'm alone.
That's become my favorite game lately. Pretending.
Pretending I don't notice the way he reeks of cheap ale and someone else's jasmine perfume. Pretending I don't see the lipstick smudged on his collar when he stumbles through the door after midnight. Pretending I don't feel the absence of his hands on me like a gods-damned blessing.
Two weeks since the Masquerade.
Two weeks since he's touched me.
I should be grateful. I am grateful. Every night he comes home too drunk to want me is another night I don't have to lie there and endure his weight, his breath, his grunting satisfaction while I count the cracks in the ceiling and wait for it to be over.
But the gratitude tastes wrong somehow. Bitter.
Because now I know what it's supposed to feel like.
Now I know what it's like to be touched by someone who makes my body sing instead of recoil. Someone who looked at me like I was something precious instead of something owned.
Lorenth.
His name echoes through my head for the thousandth time, and that ache in my chest flares—sharp and sudden and so intense I have to press my palm against my sternum just to breathe through it.
Two weeks, and it hasn't faded.
Two weeks, and I still feel the phantom press of his hands on my skin, the taste of his mouth, the way something inside me cracked open when he was buried deep and whispering my name like a prayer.
Two weeks, and I can't stop thinking about running back to him.
Darian snorts in his sleep and rolls over, the mattress dipping under his weight. I freeze, holding my breath, but he just settles again with a wet smacking sound that turns my stomach.
I need to get out of here.
Carefully—so carefully—I slide out of bed. The floorboards creak under my feet, and I pause, waiting to see if he stirs. But his snoring continues undisturbed, thick and congested, and I exhale slowly.
He doesn't care if I'm gone when he wakes up. Never has. It's only when he comes home and I'm not here that he loses his mind. Only when he thinks I might've left him, might've embarrassed him in front of the whole gods-damned village by running off.
But mornings? Mornings I'm free.
I dress quickly in the dim light filtering through the thin curtains—a simple brown dress that's seen better days, my hair braided back to keep it out of my face. My fingers fumble with the ties, clumsy in my hurry, and I have to force myself to slow down.
No point rushing. He's not going to wake up. Not with how much he drank last night.
The apartment is cramped and dark, all rough-hewn wood and cast-iron fixtures that Darian inherited when his father died.
The blacksmith shop sits below us, silent now, but come midday it'll be roaring with heat and the clang of hammer on anvil.
The whole building smells like ash and sweat and stale beer—smells that cling to everything, seeping into the walls until I can taste them on my tongue.
I hate it here.
I've always hated it here, but now—now it feels like suffocation. Like the walls are closing in tighter every day, crushing the air from my lungs until I can barely breathe.
Because I know what freedom tastes like now.
I know what it's like to laugh without fear. To be touched with gentleness instead of ownership. To feel wanted instead of tolerated.
And coming back to this—
It's killing me.
I slip out of the apartment, closing the door with a soft click, and the morning air hits my face like a shock of cold water.
It's barely dawn, the sky still streaked with pink and gold, and the village is just starting to wake.
Smoke rises from chimneys. Somewhere down the street, I hear the clatter of shutters being thrown open.
"Morning, Senna."
I turn to see Old Marrik shuffling past with a bundle of firewood under one arm. He's been the village elder for longer than I've been alive, his face creased with wrinkles and his back bent from years of labor.
"Good morning." I force a smile, and he nods before continuing on his way.
No one ever asks questions. No one ever wonders why I'm always up before dawn, slipping out of my own home like a thief. They know. They all know what Darian is. But no one says anything.
Because he's a man. Because I'm his wife. Because this is just how things are.
I walk quickly through the narrow streets, keeping my head down, and try not to think about how different it felt in New Solas. How alive the city was, how bright. How no one looked at me like I was property.
How Lorenth looked at me like I was everything.
The ache in my chest sharpens, and I press my hand against it again.
I can't keep doing this.
Can't keep pretending I'm fine. Can't keep telling myself that one night doesn't matter, that I should be grateful Darian's leaving me alone, that running would only make things worse.
Because every day I stay, it gets harder to breathe.
Every day I stay, that thread in my chest pulls tighter—yanking toward something I can't have, someone I left behind in a lantern-lit garden.
The stables sit at the edge of the village, a low wooden structure that smells like hay and animal musk. Mira's zarryn—a temperamental silver-coated beast named Ash—lifts his shaggy head when I slip inside, his double tails flicking in greeting.
"Hey, boy." I grab a brush from the hook on the wall and approach slowly. Ash tolerates me, but he's not exactly friendly. Zarryn rarely are.
He snorts, his breath warm against my palm, and I start brushing out his coat in long, steady strokes.
This is my routine. My escape.
Mira's a courier, which means she's gone more often than not, riding between villages with messages and parcels. She pays me in bread and company—two things I desperately need—and in return, I help care for Ash and put away any packages when she's away.
It's not much. But it's something.
It's a reason to leave the apartment. A reason to not be there when Darian wakes up mean or drunk or both.
The brush moves rhythmically through Ash's coat, loosening dirt and tangles, and I let my mind wander.
Back to the Masquerade.
Back to Lorenth's hands on my waist, guiding me through the dance. Back to the way he smiled—rare and devastating—when I made him laugh. Back to the garden, the lanterns, the way he looked at me when I told him I wanted to feel good for once.
"Then let me make you feel good."
Gods.
My throat tightens, and I blink hard against the sudden sting behind my eyes.
I can't cry. Can't afford to. If I start, I won't stop, and then someone will ask questions I can't answer.
Ash shifts under my hands, rumbling low in his chest, and I focus on the rhythm of the brush. In and out. Steady. Grounding.
"You're here early."
I jump, spinning around, and find Mira standing in the doorway. She's dressed in her riding leathers, her chestnut curls wild around her face, and her honey-brown eyes are sharp with concern.
"Didn't mean to startle you." She steps inside, closing the door behind her. "Darian come home late again?"
I turn back to Ash, keep brushing. "Yeah."
"Drunk?"
"Yeah."
"Smelling like another woman?"
My hand stills for just a moment before I force it to keep moving. "Yeah."
Mira's quiet for a beat. Then, "You know you don't have to stay with him, right?"
The words hang in the air between us, dangerous and impossible.
"Mira—"
"I'm serious, Senna." She moves closer, her voice dropping low. "You could leave. Tonight. Right now. I'd help you. You know I would."
I want to laugh. Want to cry. Want to scream that of course I know, that I think about it every single day, that the only thing keeping me here is fear.
Fear of what Darian would do if he found me.
Fear of what my uncle would say—the man who sold me to Darian in the first place, who made it clear I was a burden he was glad to be rid of.
Fear of being alone in a world that doesn't give a damn about women like me and ending up in a worse situation.
But I don't say any of that.
Instead, I say, "Where would I go?"
"Anywhere. The city. Another village. Somewhere he can't find you."
The city.
New Solas.
Where Lorenth is.
That pain in my chest slams against my ribs so hard so hard I actually gasp, and Mira's hand lands on my shoulder.
"Senna? You okay?"
I nod, but it's a lie. I'm not okay. Haven't been okay since the moment I ran from that garden and left the best thing that ever happened to me behind.
"I can't," I whisper, and the words taste like ash. "I can't just leave. He'd come after me. You know he would."
"So what? Let him try. He's not that scary."
"Yes, he is."
Because I've seen what Darian does when he's angry. Seen the way his fists fly. Seen the bruises he leaves behind—careful to keep them where no one can see.
Mira's jaw tightens, and I know she wants to argue. Wants to tell me I'm stronger than I think, that I deserve better, that running is the only way out.
But she's also seen the bruises.
She knows.
"One of these days," she says quietly, "you're going to realize you're worth more than this. And when you do, I'll be ready."
I don't answer. Just keep brushing Ash's coat until my arms ache and the sun climbs higher in the sky.
Until the tightness in my chest becomes unbearable.
Until all I can think about is storm-blue eyes and a voice that made me feel alive and the way freedom tasted when I was in his arms.