Chapter 30 #2
“They don’t do anything to take away from how beautiful you are, Amarah,” he murmurs, voice a low, dangerous rumble. “But make no mistake. I’m pissed.”
He rises in one smooth motion and steps out of the shower. I hear the cabinet open. My breath is unsteady by the time he returns—bare now except for his briefs, droplets sliding down his chest. He kneels again, holding a razor in his hand, then meets my gaze.
“Take a deep breath,” he says softly, firmly. “And let me take care of you.”
And I allow him to, because I do trust this man that has turned my life upside down.
I don’t know how long we stay like this—him starting at my left leg, working slowly, carefully, reverently, before moving to the right. His touch is sure and gentle. So gentle it almost breaks me more than pain ever has.
He asks about the prison.
And I tell him.
Not every detail—not the ones that don’t matter—but enough. Enough for him to understand.
They raped and mutilated me.
How and how often don’t matter.
What matters is that every single one of them is dead.
I didn’t lie when I said that if he killed everyone there, then nobody still living knows what I feel like, taste like, smell like.
That’s justice to me.
They will face their God, but they will no longer breathe the same air I do. Vendra’s world is better for it.
When he gently spreads my thighs to move his attention higher, a jolt of fear locks every muscle in my body.
He stills immediately, before reassuring me with a gentle smile and the same words as before: “Let me take care of you.”
Then proceeds to remind me that he’ll be between my thighs very soon in the way he wants. While then making a comment about the bond, and how clearly he can feel what I’m feeling, which means I should feel what he does as well.
And my heart almost falls apart in my chest.
I have to give him credit—he’s extremely perceptive.
And he was right.
The moment I placed my foot on his shoulder and he began shaving me in the most private place a person can touch, the bond lit up with everything he felt.
Desire. A fierce need to protect. A possession so potent it settled low in my belly and coiled there, throbbing.
A feral hunger that made my entire core tighten.
There wasn’t a single drop of disgust from him; not at the scars on my thighs, not at the one he could only see from this vulnerable position.
They’d had to stitch me after so much abuse, said I was “too loose,” as if it were my fault for the torture they put on me. So now there’s a small scar where the sutures were.
I never cared about how it looked. It’s not like I sat with a mirror between my legs, studying myself.
But with Kayn on his knees, looking right at me while touching me with such reverence… I’ve never felt so exposed in my life.
He listens the entire time and asks questions softly, like he’s smoothing balm over old wounds while tidying me up with steady hands.
One of those questions was about my period, and honestly, it almost made me cry. It was so unexpectedly gentle. So considerate.
I told him the truth: that I don’t have one. They sterilized me years ago. Said “a murdering bitch needs spaying so she doesn’t bring more monsters into the world.”
That indigo string between us vibrated with rage, though he never showed any violence in front of me. He kept himself composed… but I knew how angry he was.
When he was done, leaving a strip of hair to not completely make me bald, he washed my hair and then dried me off.
Truly, he took care of me.
More than anyone ever has.
Even now, he has me sitting on the counter so he can peel off his boxers—only because he declared I’m “not allowed to stand until tomorrow,” for no reason other than pure dominance.
“You’re staying, right?” I ask as he lifts me again, carrying me out of the bathroom like I weigh nothing.
He chuckles. It’s deep, warm, and the vibration running straight through my shoulder pressed to his chest. “Oh, little slayer…”
Alright, fine. The nickname is growing on me.
I am technically that—just not of the people of Sylverton.
He sets me on the bed with a gentleness that jars me more than any rough-handling could have. I have to tilt my head all the way back to keep his face in view. I stayed completely naked, though he wrapped a towel around his hips to “keep himself from being impulsive,” as he put it.
It does absolutely nothing to stop me from admiring him.
His chest, inked with tattoos, is as cut and defined as the sharp V of his hipbones. They draw the eyes down, begging to be followed. I may not be looking now, but I definitely peeked earlier.
I catch movement at the corner of my eye, and my gaze drifts downward just in time to watch him unhook the singular barrier keeping us from being fully bare to each other.
“You’re quite stuck with me,” he rumbles. “And… if you keep looking at me like that, Amarah, I’ll combust.”
The towel hits the floor with a soft thud, and I actually gasp.
For a man his stature, I wasn’t expecting small, but the shock that ripples through me has nothing to do with his size.
It’s not the network of veins snaking along his cock, or the sharply defined, utterly delicious head.
It’s not even the piercings. Though the vertical bar through the top and the horizontal one beneath it have my mouth watering.
No.
This motherfucker has a tattoo on his dick.
Alright—not the whole thing, but still.
The Medusa sprawled across his abdomen extends down onto his groin, one of the serpents winding its tail around the base of his cock like it owns that piece of him.
“It was a dare.” He sounds so proud of that.
“And you just had to prove you were capable, didn’t you?”
He chuckles. “You know it. Plus, people usually turn to stone when they see what’s coming.”
“Gods… you’re so full of yourself.” My voice comes out low, and embarrassingly needy.
“Fuck…” he groans, deep and pleased. “You’re going to beg so good for me, Amarah.”
And then he’s on his knees in front of me before I can even breathe.
“But first I’m going to worship your pussy and begin leaving my mark on what’s mine.”