Chapter 5 #2
I strip off my clothes and step under the spray, letting the hot water wash away the blood, the tears I didn’t realize I was crying, and everything else. The water stings where it hits the scratches, but I welcome the pain. It’s grounding. Real.
Better than the hollow ache in my chest.
When I finally emerge, I wrap myself in a silk robe that’s too expensive to be mine and dig through the cabinet under the sink until I find a first aid kit. It’s well-stocked: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, everything I might need.
I carry it back to the bedroom and sit cross-legged on the bed, angling myself toward the mirror so I can see what I’m doing.
The scratches look worse now that they’re clean. Deep enough that they’ll probably scar. My wolf should be healing this already, knitting the skin back together, fighting off infection.
But my wolf is weak. Suppressed. Which means I’m vulnerable. Human-level healing. Higher chance of infection.
I uncap the antiseptic and pour some onto a cotton pad.
The first touch makes me hiss through my teeth. It burns like fire, and my eyes water immediately.
I dab at the scratches carefully, methodically, trying to clean them properly. But my hands are shaking, and my vision keeps blurring with tears I refuse to let fall.
My mother’s words echo in my head.
“I told you never to mention them again!”
“You will not speak of them. Not in this house. Not ever.”
Even their names are forbidden. Even the memory of them has been erased from this place.
“You will stay away from Darius.”
And now she wants to control where I work, who I see, every aspect of my life.
I press the antiseptic-soaked pad against the deepest scratch and bite my lip hard enough to taste blood.
The tears finally spill over. They run hot down my cheeks, mixing with the antiseptic, making everything sting worse. My shoulders quiver with the effort of keeping the sobs silent.
I hate this. Hate feeling this weak.
With trembling fingers, I grab another cotton pad and keep cleaning. The motions are mechanical. Mindless. Something to focus on that isn’t the gaping wound in my chest that has nothing to do with the gouges on my face.
A knock sounds at my door. I freeze, pad pressed to my cheek.
“I’m busy,” I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. Failing.
The door opens anyway. Darius steps inside and closes it behind him.
Of course.
Of course he’d ignore a closed door. Ignore my request for privacy. Ignore every boundary I’ve tried to establish.
I don’t turn to look at him. Just keep my eyes on the mirror, on my reflection, on the careful work of cleaning these claw marks.
“I said, I’m busy.”
“I heard you.”
His footsteps are soft against the carpet as he crosses the room. I can see him in the mirror’s reflection. Those dark eyes, locked on me. On the blood. The tears.
He stops at the edge of the bed. Just stands there, watching.
I’m suddenly hyperaware of how I look. Sitting cross-legged in nothing but a robe, hair damp and tangled, face a mess of tears and antiseptic and blood.
“Get out,” I say, but there’s no strength behind the words.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just keeps watching me with those intense eyes that see too much.
I turn back to the mirror, trying to ignore him, trying to focus on cleaning the last scratch. But my hands are shaking harder now, and I can’t get the angle right, and the tears won’t stop coming.
The bed dips beside me.
“Get out.” My voice cracks.
“Give me that.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I know.” He reaches for the antiseptic bottle. “Give it to me anyway.”
I snap. I spin toward him, the antiseptic-soaked cotton pad still clutched in my trembling fingers. My free hand shoots out, aiming for the pressure point just below his ribs. The same move I tried in the corridor.
He catches my wrist before I make contact.
His fingers wrap around mine, firm and warm. As he lowers my hand slowly to my lap, I realize with a jolt that the robe must have ridden up when I shifted positions. Darius’s palm presses against my bare thigh, skin on skin.
The reaction is instantaneous. Heat races up my leg, pools low in my belly, steals the breath from my lungs. My pulse spikes. My skin flushes.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating until the brown is nearly swallowed by black. His gaze drops to where his hand rests on my exposed skin. I watch his jaw clench, see the muscles in his throat work as he swallows hard.
For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. Then, he drags his eyes back to my face with visible effort.
“You can fight me all you like.” His voice comes out rougher now. Strained. “But you’re not leaving this bed until I’ve seen to your wounds.”
“I don’t want your pity.” I try to yank my hand free, without success. “Or your help.”
“I don’t pity you.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Right. You’re too busy looking down on me for that.”
I try to push off the bed with my free hand. To get away from him and this heat that’s making it hard to think.
He pulls me back down.
I fall onto my back with a gasp. Before I can scramble up, he’s there. Hovering over me. His knees straddle my hips, pinning me in place without putting his weight on me.
He takes the cotton pad from my fingers.
“What are you—Stop!” I push against his chest, but he doesn’t move. “Get off me!”
“No.” He pours more antiseptic onto the pad, his movements controlled. “Not until this is done.”
“I can do it myself!”
“Your hands are shaking.” He leans forward, bringing the pad toward my face. “Hold still.”
I turn my injured cheek away. “Don’t…”
His free hand cups my jaw, fingers gentle but firm as he turns my face back toward him and holds me in place.
The first touch of the antiseptic makes me cry out. Fresh tears spring to my eyes as it burns.
“I know it hurts,” he murmurs, his thumb stroking my jawline. Softly. Soothingly. “Just breathe through it.”
“I hate you,” I grit out.
“I know.”
He dabs delicately at the deepest scratch, his eyes focused on it as if this is the most important thing in the world. Like cleaning my wounds matters more than anything else.
I want to fight him. Want to shove him off of me and tell him to leave me alone.
But I’m so tired. So exhausted from holding everything together, from pretending I’m fine when I’m really falling apart.
My resistance crumbles.
I lie there while he cleans each scratch with infinite patience. Despite the burning sting, I feel how his touch is gentle. Almost tender.
It makes my chest ache worse than the scratches on my face.
“Why do you let her speak to you like that?”
“Why are you so talkative all of a sudden?”
His expression shifts to one of mild amusement. “Where did you learn to fight?”
“None of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.” The words sound fierce. Possessive.
“Why? Because you’re my brother?”
He flinches as if I’ve struck him. His hand stills on my face. When he speaks, his voice is dark. Venomous. “Just because our parents are mated, it doesn’t make us siblings.”
His tone startles me. There’s a rawness to it that sounds almost like pain.
I open my mouth to respond, but he’s already reaching for a bandage. His movements are quick now. He tears open the packaging and carefully applies the dressing to my cheek, smoothing down the edges with gentle fingers.
His eyes flick to mine, and I see something in them I can’t quite figure out. Then, he sits back slightly, still straddling my hips, and studies my face.
“Have you eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Liar.” His eyes narrow. “When was the last time you had a proper meal?”
I press my lips together.
“Breakfast? Lunch?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“Come to the kitchen. I’ll make you dinner.” He shifts his weight forward, preparing to move off me.
But the movement brings him closer. His face hovers inches above mine, and suddenly, I can’t breathe. His scent overwhelms me, making my head spin.
His gaze drops to my mouth. Lingers there.
My body responds instantly. My nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of my robe. I know he can see it, know he notices the way my breath hitches, the flush spreading across my skin.
“I don’t know what you’re trying to do,” I manage to whisper. “But you spent years making me think you were a good person. Only took one conversation for me to realize you’re no different from everybody else.”
Pain flashes in his eyes. Or maybe guilt.
“Get out.” This time he lets me push him away. “I don’t need you to save me from my mother. And I don’t need your help or—or whatever game this is.”
He moves off me slowly. Stands beside the bed.
“I know it’s all a lie.” My voice is steady now. “And I won’t be made a fool of.”
He stares at me for a long moment, those dark eyes searching my face like he’s trying to memorize every detail.
Then, he turns and walks to the door. It closes behind him with a quiet click.
I sit there in the sudden silence, every part of me that he touched feeling like it’s on fire. My thigh tingles where his hand rested. My jaw aches from his gentle grasp.
And between my legs…God, I’m wet. Embarrassingly wet. My body is still humming, still aching, still wanting something I can’t bear to label.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I try not to think about how his weight felt pressing me into the mattress. How his scent made me want to arch up into him. How for one breathless moment, when his face was inches from mine, I wanted him to close that distance.
I hate myself for wanting it.
Time passes in a blur. I don’t know how long I sit here, wrapped in this robe, staring at nothing.
Eventually, I stand and move to turn off the light.
My hand is on the switch when I remember I need to lock the door. Can’t risk anyone else walking in uninvited.
But first, for some reason, I pull it open. And I freeze.
A container sits on the floor just outside my door. Clear plastic with a slice of cake inside. The kind with layers of dark chocolate and cream, the expensive kind that Alaric’s chef makes for special occasions.
I stare at it.
My throat tightens as I crouch down and pick it up. The container is still slightly warm, like the slice was just cut. Like someone went downstairs to the kitchen specifically to get this for me.
For one weak moment, I want to eat it. To accept this small kindness and pretend it means something.
Then, reality crashes back.
This doesn’t mean anything. Darius is just playing some game I don’t understand. Easing his conscience, maybe.
I set it back down. I won’t eat it. Won’t give him the satisfaction of thinking a slice of cake makes up for anything.
I close the door. Lock it. Turn off the light. Crawl into bed and pull the covers up to my chin. But sleep doesn’t come.
I lie there in the darkness, my body still humming with awareness, still aching, still burning with the memory of his hands on my skin.
I press my hand to my chest, trying to ease the ache there.
It doesn’t help.