Chapter 16 #2
Lhuka chuffed, then whispered in Jakhov’s ear what Emillie could only assume was a translation of her words. Whatever it was had the sinister dhemon’s cobalt face darkening a shade with a blush, his expression softening. His lips parted as he searched Revelie’s face before quickly looking away.
A knowing grin stretched Phulan’s lips again. “Well, then. Now that we all know one another…you all should get packed.”
Emillie whipped her attention back to the mage. “When do we leave?”
Standing, Phulan appeared entirely too pleased with herself. “Tonight.”
Spending time with Azriel was growing more and more difficult since Ariadne’s return to Auhla.
As such, she took every opportunity to be with her husband.
Breaking her fast, between meetings and training, and every morning when they lay down together for sleep.
Despite her desire to be intimate, however, she could not find it in herself to even allow him to see her naked.
Something about her bare skin felt…unclean.
The sensation was not new to her. In fact, she had once grown too accustomed to the need to purge herself of anything and everything that proved to be a reminder of her past. Dirt. Cold. Darkness. Rough stone.
That it returned now, thanks to Loren Gard, the man who once made her feel safe, only angered her more. Yet she could not stop herself any time the urge to cleanse arose—even in the most inopportune moments.
The evening Phulan approached her and Azriel about her plans for Algorath was one such time.
As the mage spoke, her voice drifted farther and farther away as Ariadne fought back the memories of sand sticking to her skin.
It clawed its way across her arms and face, dragging the echo of Kall’s laugh along with it, before the phantom grains turned into hands that held firm to her wrists.
Spouting a quick acceptance of what Phulan suggested—hardly taking note of the small team she planned to take with her—Ariadne turned on her heel and rushed back to her room, the world narrowing into nothingness.
After clarifying several pieces of information with Phulan and ensuring they would be taken care of by Lhuka and Jakhov, Azriel followed Ariadne’s path back through the keep to their room.
The question of what had caused her sudden departure had his mind spinning and the bond roaring for answers.
That he’d been able to keep his head on straight while solidifying the details with Phulan was, unto itself, a miracle.
Logically, Azriel knew it hadn’t been very long since Ariadne’s sudden departure from their conversation.
He knew she could be, at most, two minutes ahead of him.
Yet as he made his way through the halls, time slipped through his fingers.
It stretched out around him in a maze of heartbeats that separated him from his distraught wife, and before long, he lost track of it entirely.
So when he fumbled for the latch to the door of their shared room, Azriel’s breaths burned in his lungs. All he could hear aside from the thunder of each pump of his blood were eight words, repeated over and over in Ariadne’s voice.
I hate you more than you hate yourself.
Cursing under his breath, he burst through the door and scanned the room wildly, seeking any sign of her.
The cry that escaped him was akin to a wounded animal.
Azriel kicked the door closed before launching across the room to where Ariadne sat half-clothed in their massive tub, the water so shallow he could not see it until he got closer.
Except it wasn’t all water. Where he expected the liquid she sat in to be clear, he found it to be swirling with ribbons of crimson.
“What are you doing?” Azriel cried, unable to contain the panic in his voice.
But Ariadne didn’t respond. She didn’t look up at him. If she registered his presence at all, he would’ve been surprised. Instead, she sobbed openly as she dragged a coarse brush meant for scrubbing stone floors over her arms again and again, peeling away her skin so it shone raw and bloody.
Azriel fell to his knees and grabbed her wrist over the brush-wielding hand, only to release it the moment she screamed. It wasn’t a scream of pain, but one of terror.
“Alhija,” he gasped, grappling for the brush. She yanked it out of his reach before sliding it across her chest, then up her neck. Streaks of red blossomed in its wake, then slid down her fair skin. His stomach churned at the sight, the monster inside unable to locate the source of her distress.
Forcing back the horrible memories of their first encounter, Azriel grit his teeth and grabbed her arm again. Ariadne’s scream tore through him like a blade, ripping the air from his lungs. Still, he held on. Still, he forced her hand to stop its incessant scrubbing.
Ariadne thrashed. “Let go of me! Let go! Let go!”
He ripped the brush from her grip, and she threw herself forward in an attempt to snatch it back. Instead, Azriel wrapped his arms around her, hauled her from the tub, and held tight as she writhed in his hold.
“Let go!” The screams grew louder and louder, and the way she moved was not that of a trained fighter.
A trained killer. Each desperate motion, fueled by something he couldn’t see or confront, was identical to that night a year and a half ago when he’d dragged her from the Harlow Estate to these very halls.
“Ariadne, listen to me,” he choked out, his hands slipping over the blood that still streaked her healing wounds. “You are here. You are safe. You are mine.”
Again, she screamed, and this time, she threw her head back. Her skull collided with his nose, and he silently cursed himself for not protecting his own face. Though his eyes watered, no metallic taste followed.
“Let me go!” The words faded from shrieks to a cry of desperation before fading into a defeated moan. “Please let me go…”
“Sabharni, alhija,” he breathed as he held her steady.
When her knees gave out, Azriel sank to the floor with her. Enduring her sobs wasn’t new to him, yet each time broke him a little more. His bond throttled him, blaming him for every ounce of her pain.
“You are here,” he repeated, bending the words she so often used to calm him after Algorath. “You are safe. You are mine. Only mine.”
Again and again, he said the words, watching her self-inflicted wounds heal to leave behind pale scars that would disappear within hours.
The minutes trickled past, slow and steady and agonizingly loud as a blacksmith’s hammer striking an anvil.
Yet as sure as the formation of a fresh blade, Ariadne’s pulse slowed. Her breaths evened out.
Sure enough, she relaxed into his arms with a long exhale, her body shaking from the exertion. From there, she cried, nearly silent.
When she’d calmed enough to hear his words, Azriel whispered, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to keep you safe.”
Ariadne whimpered, then said, “I was not strong enough. I tried. I promise I tried.”
A thousand possibilities ran rampant through his mind at that. There was so much she hadn’t said, so much she’d kept to herself, so much from which she’d tried to protect him.
And wasn’t that a horrible realization?
She’d been protecting him from his bond, his monster—from himself. His own mind was the equivalent of the Pits, and he’d lost those mental matches too many times. Now even Ariadne feared the beast that lurked beneath his skin.
After all she’d seen him do? After all she’d learned since her return? Azriel couldn’t blame her. Not when he’d nearly killed Kall. Not when he’d gone on a rampage through Waer Province. Not when he’d tried to strangle his own fucking brother.
His sanity teetered on a precipice, and whatever had happened to her by Loren’s hands would only stoke the rage that simmered just beneath the surface.
Still, he needed to know. The guessing only made those images created by the bond worse. Having that secret between them would only cause a greater rift—particularly if it led to Ariadne trying to tear the skin from her bones again.
“What did he do?” Azriel asked the question as carefully and levelly as he could muster.
Ariadne went still. No inhale or exhale. Just…stillness.
Azriel swallowed past the lump in his throat. “You are strong, my love. Whatever he did is not due to your weakness, but to his malice. He is a coward who preys upon the fear of others.”
Silence stretched between them, then slowly Ariadne twisted in his arms to curl in against his chest. She stared at a distant place he couldn’t see before saying, “He found me with the book. I had tried to hide it, but he knew…somehow he knew, and he was so angry. He chased me and I could not—”
The words cracked, then broke entirely. She shuddered in his arms and shook her head before continuing, softer now, “The damn dress got in my way. He hit me, and I fell. Then he tried to…but he could not.”
It was as bad as he’d imagined. Bile rose in his throat, and as much as he wanted to skin the bastard himself, he’d much rather watch Ariadne tear him apart.
She deserved that much after all Loren had done to her.
And he wouldn’t dream of getting in her way.
Not when he’d seen what her vengeance looked like.
Yet there was one part he didn’t quite understand. Azriel swept her damp hair back from her face and asked, “What stopped him?”
Ariadne’s response was not what he expected. “Nikolai Jensen.”
He waited a moment to let the name sink in. It never did. “Why would he do such a thing and risk being caught?”
“I am not certain.” A crease formed between her brows.
Relief swept over Azriel at the sight; this was distracting enough to keep her out of her own head. At least for now.
“He said he is not blind to what Loren is doing,” she said. “And he protected me in Algorath—from him and Melia. I do not think Nikolai is our enemy.”
Azriel grunted. “I can’t trust anyone who stands by and watches a tyrant take over.”