Chapter 23 #2
He stepped further in, his gaze sweeping the room as the doors closed behind him. The dripping was loud enough to draw his attention to blood dropping to the floor. The wide sleeve of her white mourning dress was sodden crimson at the hem, a steady trickle of crimson falling from beneath it.
He crossed the space in two strides. Wordlessly, he took her arm. She didn’t resist. He pushed back the heavy fabric.
His heart trembled; her hand was a savage, pulpy mess of puncture wounds, blood welling from a dozen vicious, self-inflicted stabs.
She must’ve been in great pain, and yet her face remained so still that it scared him more than he could express.
Looking down, he noted her bare feet amidst shards.
He said nothing. Instead, he hooked his arm around her legs and lifted her to sit on the edge of the table.
Fetching water and clean linen from the basin in the corner, he focused on patching what he could.
First her hand, and then he knelt to check her feet.
All in silence, for if she did not wish to speak, he was not inclined to disrupt her.
Her eyes were transfixed as if in deep thought.
Only when he was done, and her wounds had been cleaned, did he finally speak.
"Do not take your frustrations out on yourself.
" He did not fully understand her brain or how she saw the world.
But he could tell she was met with an enemy greater than herself, and so she struggled to fight.
"If you must, you can take them out on me. "
It was their contract after all, his protection for her mind. And so he needed to keep her intellect intact; he needed to keep her happy.
She stared at him, her gaze drifting from his eyes, over his face, and down his neck. Her tear-blurred vision caught the raised welts peeking above the collar of his tunic.
Her uninjured hand lifted, her fingers hooked into the fabric at his throat. She pulled as though to undress him; he didn’t stop her, his heart coming to his throat.
The collar gave way, revealing the brutal kiss of lashes across his shoulders and the back of his neck, the skin broken and inflamed.
She shifted her hand, bringing her long, red-rimmed nails to the edge of one of the worst welts. She pressed down, as if to transfer the seething, inarticulate agony in her soul into a physical pain he could share, could understand, could hold for her.
His body trembled, and he clenched his jaw as pain resurfaced, his body tensing, but he didn’t pull away.
He let her nails bite into the inflamed flesh until it drew blood.
When her trembling began to subside, he moved. Still kneeling, he lifted her newly bandaged hand. He turned it over, exposing the vulnerable, uninjured skin of her inner wrist. He pressed his mouth there.
Then he looked up, his dark eyes holding hers. She only stared down at him, her hair shielding the both of them.
A tear fell onto his face, sliding down to his chin.
He wasn’t sure at first if they were tears or whether he simply wished, more than anything, for her to show him what lay in her heart.
"Take it off," she said, her voice a husk of its usual melody.
A beat of silence. Then his hands rose. He unfastened the belt around his waist, pulling down his robes until his torso, scars and all, was laid bare before her.
She reached up to trace the clean bandages hiding the scars she had given him.
"I need to remove the stitches when you return," she muttered, more to herself.
Her fingers moved from the bandages to the skin beneath, following the hard line of his abdomen. She felt the muscles jump beneath her touch, a violent flinch he couldn’t suppress. His breath deepened, audible in the silent room.
"The body remembers pain," she murmured, her cold eyes watching his face. "Even when the mind claims it’s healed."
Her hand drifted lower over the taut plane of his stomach, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared beneath the loose fabric still pooled at his hips.
He shuddered, a full-body tremor he couldn’t control.
His hands, which had been resting by his sides, clenched into fists so tight the knuckles blanched.
"Khatun," he said in a strained rasp.
"Hm?" Her wet gaze flicked up to his. Her fingers hooked into the last barrier of cloth. "Does this bother you?"
He held her stare, his jaw locked, the cords in his neck standing out. Shame and desire warred in his dark eyes, both equally humiliating under her detached observation. He said nothing. Sundering.
It bothered him.
It bothered him that he dared not move, and he dared not reach down to kiss her.
She pulled the fabric down.
The cool air of the room hit his exposed skin. And his body, traitorously, reacted. A flush swept up his chest, over his scars, staining his throat. He tried to will it away, to command himself to stillness, but the evidence of his own want was laid bare before her gaze.
A cruel smile touched her lips. She knew exactly what power she held.
"So," she purred, her eyes dropping. "The great Khan is truly a man, after all."
"...Khatun." His voice was barely audible.
She reached out. Not to touch him there, but to lay her palm flat against the pounding, frantic rhythm of his heart. "Your heart races. Is it fear?" She looked up, leaning forward on the table. "Or anticipation?"
Looking away, he gritted his teeth; he couldn’t answer. Language had deserted him.
Her hand slid from his chest, down the centreline of his body, tormenting him deliciously. Every scar on his body felt like it was burning fiercely.
Yet he felt no pain.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice soft as a blade slipping between ribs, piercing his heart and flaying it open.
He forced his head up. His eyes were glassy.
She finally wrapped her cool fingers around him. His body tensed, his breathing turning laboured as heat consumed him.
"You see?" she whispered, her thumb moving in a slow, ruthless circle. "This is the truth of our contract. Your vulnerability in my hand. Your life, and your pleasure, are mine to give or withhold." She tightened her grip, just shy of pain. "Do you understand your position now, my Lord?"
Did he understand?
With her words, a line had been drawn in the sand.
His life was hers to own, and he had challenged her to take it.
It seemed, while he was carried away by her whims, she had long since conquered it.
She released him, as if losing interest. She looked at the wetness on her hand and smirked. "You may dress."
He stayed frozen for a moment, the abandonment landing as hard as everything before it. Moving felt impossible. His body was a foreign, disobedient thing.
She did not look away, merely watching him to see if he would obey.
He had half a mind to see her back to the table and part her legs. To have her nails dig into his back as much as she liked, to have her finally disarm herself before him.
But did she wish for such?
He couldn’t tell.
Ragnar had thought she had exposed herself to him a little, but now he was beginning to realise, not once could he fully tell what she wished of him unless she spoke of it.
Pulling his robes back up, he silently retied his belt, fixing his clothes to protect her dignity when he left. He could still feel her gaze on his skin, colder than any winter on the Steppes.
He left, closing the door softly behind him. In the dark corridor, he leaned his forehead against the cold stone wall. His body still buzzed with the echo of her touch, his soul smitten with the scalding brand of her contempt.
Ragnar understood the weakness of his flesh; that he would, one day, cross deserts and burn kingdoms for the chance to kneel before her again.
“Great Khan.”
Ragnar opened his eyes to Thane’s call; he inhaled deeply, calming his beating heart.
“Somadina, is that his name?”
“The Okpalaeze?” Thane asked. “Yes.”
Ragnar’s words ended there, but his thoughts continued.