Chapter fourteen
Chapter thirteen
“Where are we? And will you put me down?”
“While you’re ailing?”
“ Ailing ? Put me down.”
Aris obliges with a sigh, setting me on my feet, and I instantly spin in a circle to get a full look around. We’re somewhere unfamiliar—a modern home made of glass walls.
I move slowly, my head still spinning. I probably need to be on oxygen, given the smoke exposure and the strangulation, but I’m determined to tough it out.
“Where are we?” I repeat, turning back to him. We entered not through a door but by simply appearing in the middle of a family room. Futuristic couches surround a metal coffee table, and a flat screen the size of a swimming pool hangs on the wall.
“You need to sleep.” His nose wrinkles. “And shower. You reek of ash.”
“There was a fire,” I say flatly. “And where are we ?”
Aris sighs. “I’ll just say that this house used to belong to a certain Prime Minister. Now, it’s mine.”
My stomach twists as I take another look around, off-put by the picture frames on the walls. There are children in some of them.
“Where’s the bathroom?” I just say.
“I didn’t explore,” he tells me, taking a seat on the couch. Some soot transfers from his blazer, staining white fabric; it’s a perfect, poetic representation of our presence here.
“I’m going to shower,” I announce, walking away.
“Good,” he calls after me, then pauses. “You got debris on me!”
“You shouldn’t have picked me up!” I say loudly, opening different doors to find a bathroom.
At the burned estate, Aris busied himself for all of ten minutes before returning to me, announcing that we were leaving. Gathering me in his arms with a gentle but inarguable grip, he brought us here .
I’m doing my best not to think about what “here” means. Who it belonged to, and who will never return. And, whether Aris will be staying the night with me. My new orders are biting at me. Jaegen wants me to act now.
When I finally find the bathroom, I hurriedly shut the door behind me and observe myself in the mirror. Covered in scrapes, scratches, and dried blood, I am no seductress.
I take my clothes off and fidget with the knobs in the shower until water comes out, then shift the knobs to change the temperature. Finally, steam makes a thin layer over the shower door, and I hop in.
The water feels incredible, making me groan—the act hurting my ribs. With a wince, I take a seat, bringing the soap with me. And, now that I’m on the ground, I don’t think I’ll be able to get up again.
Tiredly, I begin the Sisyphean task of removing grass and ash from my skin and hair. The steam is helping clear my lungs and I’m breathing easier, slowly and deeply as exhaustion settles.
My adrenaline has faded by now, and every movement is syrupy slow and requires great effort. My acts soon turn lazy and uncoordinated, more like swipes than purposeful pluckings.
At some point, keeping my eyes open proves to be too difficult, and I slump over as water cascades around me.
“Mary?” I hear Aris say after some time, voice muffled. I’m too tired to respond—even to him, and keep my eyes shut.
The door opens, there is a pause, and then the shower turns off. Next thing I know, I’m being wrapped in something warm. Strong, infallible arms pick me up and press me against a chest. I settle into the crook between shoulder and neck, and the arms stiffen.
Eventually, I am gently set on something soft and blankets are piled on top of me. The light switches out, and in a dumb, groggy state, I know that I am about to be left.
“Wait,” I murmur. “Stay.”
There is a long pause. “Mary,” says Aris with some surprise.
I prepare myself for an innuendo or verbal lashing, but there is only silence .
Finally, when I’m about entirely unconscious, I feel the covers begin to shift as a body settles next to me.
I reach out blindly for some part of him, finding nothing but air. He must take pity on me because a hand eventually clasps my own. Our fingers interlock and bury beneath the blankets, to help alleviate the coolness of his skin.
He is with me.
In the morning, I will feel ashamed. I will tell myself that this is because of Jaegen and the spell, that this is premeditated for purposes of the plan. The truth is that I’m too tired to scheme.
I was afraid tonight; I didn’t know if the fire would claim me, if I would survive the fall from the window, if Jaegen would stop choking me. The truth is that I was scared, and that, right now, I want Aris.
His permanence. His power. For better or worse.
Slowly, a hand begins to move through my hair, lightly massaging my scalp. I let out a soft sigh, leaning toward him, wondering in my deliria why I waited so long to let this happen.
“I must say,” he murmurs. “I am surprised by this development. For some time, I’ve adjusted my expectations.”
The sound of his voice relaxes me further, and it takes a moment for his words to even register. Expectations… How long has he waited for this?
I picture him on his throne, considering different scenarios—if he touched my hair, where would he begin? Would he brush a full curl, or simply rest his hand by my scalp? And, if I allowed any of this, then what? Where would he touch me next?
The thought fades, exhaustion hindering my imagination. I succumb to the simplicity of being regarded kindly .