Chapter 18
Diarvet
Jolie and I retreated to the treehouse, leaving Binwee to oversee the royal barge.
The Peecha tasked themselves with cleaning up the landscape while the freed harem slaves milled about in small clusters, helping where they could.
Some of them, I noticed, had claimed weapons from the fallen Kwado guards and now carried blades and blasters with a newfound determination in their eyes, as if daring anyone to try to re-enslave them.
The walk to the treehouse caused Jolie's face to twist with a frown, her usual graceful stride faltering as she took in the landscape around us.
The devastation from the Kwado invasion was everywhere.
Scorched earth, broken vegetation, and splintered trees.
The small garden Jolie and Lilibet had so happily tended was now reduced to broken stems, crushed leaves, and squashed produce.
The treehouse itself had survived surprisingly well, showing no more damage than broken railings, loose thatching and boards, as if it had weathered nothing worse than a windstorm.
We would repair it. The treehouse was now as precious to me as it was to Vraxxan and Lucy.
Jolie said nothing as I led her into the cleansing area, her silence heavy a weight that seemed to press down on her slender shoulders.
My brave, beautiful mate. She'd come for me, put herself in danger all because she was determined not to let me suffer under Qurbaga's hand. The memory of her fierce expression when she'd found me flickered through my mind—how she’d faced the male who’d defiled her, offering herself in my stead—followed immediately by the visceral recollection of the moment I tore his head from his shoulders.
The wet crunch of vertebrae separating. The spray of dark blood.
The feeling of completed vengeance for everything he'd done to Jolie and Lilibet in the past, and the promise of protection for their future.
I kept my hand on the small of her back—I needed to touch her, needed the reassurance of her warmth beneath my palm, the solid reality of her presence after the threat of losing her.
I reached for the faucet with my other hand, turning the handle until it gave way with a familiar squeak.
Warm water began to flow from the pipe near the ceiling, first in sputtering bursts, then in a steady stream that cascaded down like gentle rain.
Steam rose in delicate wisps, curling through the air, filling the small space with humid warmth and the promise of cleansing away the reminder of what we'd both endured.
Jolie stood motionless as I peeled the tunic and pants from her body, my fingers working with deliberate gentleness at the fabric that clung to her skin.
The once-soft material had grown stiff and tacky with drying blood.
Qurbaga's blood, not hers, I reminded myself as my hands trembled slightly. Jolie’s breath hitched slightly, then expelled with deep relief as each piece of soiled clothing separated from her skin.
When the garments finally fell away, they landed on the floor with a wet, sickening squelch that seemed to echo too loudly in the small space.
My own garments told another brutal story.
The fabric was stiff and crusted in places, saturated with layers of crimson and dark green that had dried in overlapping patterns.
My blood mingled with Qurbaga's in a macabre mixture.
I could feel the tacky resistance, the fabric pulling slightly before releasing with a faint tearing sound.
Beneath, my flesh bore none of the marks of my torture, shifting had healed me completely.
I paused before guiding Jolie beneath the water, needing to see her face.
"Are you okay, zeihava?" I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper.
I cupped her face in my hands, my palms cradling the delicate curve of her jaw, thumbs brushing across the sharp edges of her cheekbones as I tilted her chin up so I could search her eyes properly.
Alone now, not having to maintain the brave facade she'd worn for the others, Jolie's carefully constructed composure finally crumbled. Her lower lip trembled uncontrollably, and I watched vulnerability flood across her features. Worry, as though she was afraid to let herself believe it was done.
"It's over," I promised, my voice thick as I let my lips brush across her forehead, lingering against her warm skin, breathing in her scent beneath the copper tang of blood. "Qurbaga is dead. He can never harm you or Lilibet ever again. Never."
“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just the adrenaline waning,” Jolie said as she nodded, the movement small and jerky, almost convulsive, followed by a deep, shuddering sigh that seemed to come from the very depths of her soul.
Her breath hitched, catching in her throat as if she'd been holding it for hours and only now remembered how to breathe.
But despite the nod, despite the acknowledgment of safety, tears still gathered in her brown eyes, clinging to her dark lashes for a heartbeat before spilling over, tracing hot paths down her cheeks and mingling with the dried blood that still marked her skin.
I guided us beneath the shower's steady stream, wrapping her tightly in my arms and cocooning her against my chest. The warm water cascaded over us, streaming down our bodies in rivulets that carried away the evidence of violence.
Watching Qurbaga's blood sluice from her skin in diluted pale green streams that swirled and eddied around our feet before disappearing down the drain seemed to release something deep inside Jolie.
She sagged against me, her knees weakening until I bore most of her weight.
She wrapped her arms tight around my waist, clinging to me as if I were the only solid thing in the universe.
Then she began to sob—great, heaving gasps that shook her entire frame, her chest convulsing against mine with each ragged breath.
The sounds that escaped her were raw and angry, muffled against my chest where she'd buried her face.
Her whole body trembled, shoulders shaking, breath coming in sharp, stuttering inhales between the waves of tears.
I simply held her, one hand cradling the back of her head and threading through her wet hair while the other pressed firmly against her spine, keeping her close, keeping her safe.
I'd seen this type of response from other humans in the aftermath of battles and escapes.
Not sadness, not fear, but the overwhelming relief of finally, truly realizing the danger had passed and they had survived.
The body's way of releasing what the mind had been unable to process in the moment.
I reached for the soap, a rough, handmade bar that smelled faintly of herbs and something floral, working it between my palms until a lather formed.
"Let me," I murmured softly against her temple, my voice barely audible above the sound of falling water.
Jolie didn't respond with words, but she loosened her desperate grip on my waist enough to allow me room to work. Her crying had quieted to soft, hitching breaths, the storm passing but leaving her wrung out and exhausted in its wake.
I started with her shoulders, smoothing the lather across her skin with careful, deliberate strokes.
My palms glided over the curves and planes of her body, washing away every trace of blood, every reminder that Qurbaga had existed in her life.
I worked slowly down her arms to her fingertips, across her back where tension still knotted the muscles along her spine, along her sides where her ribs expanded with each shuddering breath.
She remained pliant under my ministrations, eyes closed, face tilted up into the spray as I cupped water in my hands and rinsed the soap away. I watched the suds slide down her body in white rivulets, taking with them the last vestiges of this terrible day.
When I gently turned her around, she went willingly, trusting me completely.
I lathered my hands again and smoothed them through her hair, working carefully through the tangles, my fingers massaging her scalp in slow, soothing circles.
She made a small sound—not quite a sigh, not quite a whimper—and leaned back into my touch.
"I've got you," I whispered, supporting her weight as I rinsed the soap from her hair, shielding her eyes with one broad palm while the water cascaded through the golden strands. "You're safe now. You're mine, and you're safe."
The Kwado scent that had clung to her—that musty, sulfurous smell of swamp water tinged with blood—finally washed away, replaced by the clean smell of soap and the warm, familiar scent that was uniquely hers.
I breathed it in, letting it ground me, letting it remind me that she was here, alive, whole.
By the time I finished, the water running at our feet was clear, all evidence of Qurbaga's existence swirling away into nothingness.
When I finally turned off the water, the silence felt profound, nothing but our quiet breathing in the steam-filled space.
Jolie stood motionless, eyes still closed, water droplets clinging to her lashes and sliding down the curve of her neck.
I reached for one of the large drying cloths hanging on the wooden peg. Soft, worn fabric that had been used countless times, the fibers thick and absorbent. Shaking it out, I draped it first across her shoulders like a cape, cocooning her in its warmth.
"Come here, zeihava," I murmured.
She moved like someone half-asleep, utterly spent, trusting me to take care of everything. I gathered the ends of the cloth and began to gently pat her shoulders dry, working in soft, rhythmic motions. Water darkened the fabric as it absorbed the moisture from her skin.