Chapter 58 - My Queen
I try not to look at him.
At first, it feels like the easiest thing to do fix my gaze somewhere just past his shoulder, let my eyes settle on something meaningless, something safe, something that won't reflect anything back at me.
The floor beneath my feet becomes my anchor, the faint texture of the fabric blurring as my vision struggles to stay steady.
Anything is better than looking at him. Because if I do, I know I will see it the truth, stripped of comfort and softened illusions, laid bare in a way I won't be able to escape.
I will see what I've become.
And I don't think I can survive that.
I stand there, wrapped in nothing but a thin cloth that barely clings to my skin, doing nothing to hide the bruises blooming beneath it, the faint trembling that hasn't left my body since I ran, since I fought, since I refused to give in even when it would have been easier to stop.
My body feels foreign now like something I've been forced back into rather than something I belong in.
Every inch of it aches in a way that is impossible to ignore.
My skin feels too tight in some places, too sensitive in others, and I am suddenly aware of everything all at once the way the air brushes against me, the way my balance shifts slightly to favor my unjured leg, the way I am standing completely exposed in front of the one man whose opinion I should not care about right now, and yet
I do.
God, I do.
I have never been ashamed of my body.
Not when I worked with my hands and carried my own weight among people who never cared what I looked like as long as I showed up and did the work.
Not when I stood in court, dressed in gowns that cost more than anything I had ever known, pretending I belonged among nobles who measured worth in bloodlines and appearances.
Not even when I became queen, when every movement felt observed, every expression dissected, every flaw magnified beneath a thousand unseen eyes.
My body was never something I questioned.
It was just mine.
Until now.
Now it feels like something else entirely.
Something marked.
Something touched in ways that make my stomach twist when I remember them.
Something I don't recognize anymore.
His fingers close gently around my wrist, and I flinch.
It's small barely noticeable but I feel it all the same. The involuntary tightening of my muscles, the brief hitch in my breath, the way my body reacts before my mind can catch up and remind it that this is him. Not them.
"m sorry," he says quietly.
There's no anger in his voice. No sharpness. Just something steady, something grounded, something that doesn't shift even when everything else around me feels like it might collapse.
And somehow, that makes it worse.
Because I don't deserve steady.
I don't deserve the way he holds my wrist like it's still something whole, something unbroken, something worth being careful with.
He turns my hand slightly, examining the skin with quiet precision.
The marks are worse now that they've been cleaned angry red lines where the rope bit too deep, bruising already darkening beneath the surface, small cuts where I must have struggled harder than I remember.
It looks like something that belongs to someone else.
"What happened here?" he asks.
His voice remains calm, controlled, but there's something beneath it something held back so tightly I can almost feel the strain of it.
"The rope," I answer softly, forcing my voice to remain even. "They tied it too tight."
I keep it simple.
I keep it small.
Because if I let anything else slip through if I let even a fraction of what it felt like settle into my tone I don't know if I'll be able to stop.
His hand stills for the briefest moment, just long enough for me to notice. Then he continues, cleaning the wound with careful hands, wrapping it with more gentleness than I deserve, before reaching for the small book beside him and writing something down.
He records everything.
Every bruise.
Every mark.
Like it matters.
Like it means something.
He moves to my arm, lifting it slightly. The bruise there is unmistakable, dark and spreading, shaped too perfectly like fingers that held too tightly, too forcefully.
His thumb hovers just beneath it.
"What about this?"
I hesitate.
I shouldn't.
It's just a question.
But it feels heavier than that, like answering it means acknowledging something I would rather pretend didn't happen.
"They grabbed me," I say quietly. "When I tried to move away."
That's enough.
It has to be.
His jaw tightens, and I see it even without looking directly at his face. The shift in him is subtle, controlled, but it's there. Something cracks beneath the surface, something restrained but not gone.
He writes it down.
Moves lower.
Another bruise.
Another question.
"They pushed me," I say before he asks this time, my voice distant, like I'm explaining something that happened to someone else. "They didn't like it when I said no."
He continues.
Careful.
Precise.
"They tried to make me dance," I add quietly. "I said no."
His hand stills again.
"I was punished ."
The silence that follows is heavier now, pressing against the air between us until it feels difficult to breathe.
"They wanted me to kiss them," I continue, forcing the words out before I can stop myself. "I was punished."
I swallow hard.
"They didn't like that either."
His gaze lifts briefly, and I make the mistake of meeting it.
There is nothing in his eyes.
Nothing warm.
Nothing soft.
Just something cold.
Something final.
And it terrifies me more than anything else has.
"They wanted me to..." I hesitate, but I can feel him waiting, and I know I can't stop now. "They wanted me to sleep with them."
The words fall between us, and everything stops.
"I was punished" I whisper, my voice breaking despite my effort to keep it steady. "Because i refused."
He doesn't speak.
But something inside him shifts again.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just enough that I know it's there.
He finishes wrapping my arm and moves to my leg, his hands steady, controlled, like whatever he's feeling has been locked away behind something colder, something sharper.
"Does it hurt anywhere else?" he asks.
I almost say no.
Out of habit.
Out of instinct.
Out of the need to make this easier for him.
But I don't.
"Here," I say quietly, touching my side. "And my shoulder."
I hesitate, then add softly, "My back."
He nods, writing it down, checking each place with careful hands, treating every wound like it matters.
And that...
That's what breaks me.
Not the pain.
Not the memory.
Not the fear still clinging to the edges of my thoughts.
It's the way he's looking at me.
The way he's touching me.
Like I'm still me.
Like I'm not something ruined.
"I'm sorry," I whisper before I can stop myself.
The words come out small, fragile, pathetic.
"I shouldn't have gotten caught. I should've been stronger. I should've..."
He exhales sharply, and the sound cuts through me.
His pen stills.
The book closes.
He stands.
And suddenly, I don't know what will happens next. I don't know if this is the moment he steps away. The moment he looks at me and sees what I see.
The moment everything changes.
But it doesn't.
Instead, he moves to the bed, sits, and opens his arms.
"Come here."
I hesitate.
Because that's not what I expected. Because I don't understand it. But his voice softens when he says my name again, and something in me gives in.
I move slowly, sitting beside him, unsure, uncertain.
But he doesn't wait.
He pulls me into him, firm and steady, his arms wrapping around me like I belong there.
I tense for a moment.
"I'm not angry at you," he says quietly.
I blink, confused, because that doesn't make sense.
"I'm proud of you."
The words hit harder than anything else.
"You escaped," he continues, his voice steady. "You fought. You found me."
His hand moves gently through my hair.
"You are stronger than most men I've seen die."
He kisses my forehead softly.
"You are my queen," he murmurs. "And i told you before nothing will ever change how I see you."
My throat tightens.
Because I don't believe that.
But I want to.
God, I want to.