Chapter 9 Scars
Chapter nine
Scars
Jade
"Ifeel ridiculous," I admitted, though I made no attempt to wiggle free from his arms as he carried me into the penthouse. "I've never been so thoroughly...well, fucked that I literally couldn't walk."
His low chuckle sent a pleasant shiver down my spine. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"You should," I replied, letting my head rest against his shoulder. "Though my ego may never recover."
"Your ego," he said, stopping at the threshold of a doorway, "should be absolutely fine. Mine, however, might become insufferable."
I laughed, as he nudged open a door with his foot, heading straight for the bathroom. He set me down carefully on a padded bench near the shower, making sure I was steady before stepping back. "I thought you might want to wash away the club," he said, already moving to turn on the shower.
"That sounds amazing," I agreed.
He tested the water with his hand before turning back to me. "Ready?"
We quickly got undressed and he led me into the shower, I sighed as the hot water cascaded over my aching muscles.
"Turn," he directed softly, and I obeyed, presenting my back to him.
"You're beautiful," he said simply, his palms sliding down my spine to the small of my back.
I leaned into his touch, savoring the simple pleasure of being cared for. When he finished washing my back, I turned to face him, taking the soap from his hands.
"My turn," I said, lathering my palms before placing them on his chest.
His eyes darkened slightly as I began to explore him with soapy hands, tracing the ridges and valleys of his scars with curious fingers.
"Do they hurt?" I asked softly, following a particularly deep line that curved around his ribs.
"Not anymore," he replied.
When we were both clean, Magnur turned off the water and reached for thick towels from a heated rack. He wrapped one around me before taking another for himself.
He pulled on a pair of loose pants but remained shirtless. I grabbed pajamas from my bag, smiling when he took out my items and placed them in his closet.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Starving," I admitted, suddenly aware that I hadn't eaten since before the club.
He took my hand and led me back to the living room, where he settled me on the plush sectional couch.
"Stay," he instructed, though there was no chance I was going anywhere. My body still hummed with pleasant exhaustion, and the couch threatened to swallow me whole.
He returned minutes later with a wooden board piled with cheese, sliced fruit, crusty bread, and small pots of honey and jam.
"This is perfect," I said, selecting a piece of sharp cheddar and a slice of green apple.
His free hand rested on my bare leg, his thumb tracing idle circles on my skin.
"So," I finally said, popping a grape into my mouth, "that was my first sex club experience. Do they always end with someone having to be carried out?"
Magnur laughed. "Only the successful ones."
"Tell me something about you. Something I don't know yet."
His fingers continued their gentle exploration of my calf as he thought. "I was afraid of heights when I was young," he finally said. "Ironic for a demon who would eventually develop wings."
The image of baby Magnur, afraid to look down, made me smile. "How did you get over it?"
"My father threw me off a cliff," he said matter-of-factly. At my horrified expression, he added, "Standard demon parenting. Sink or fly."
"And you flew," I guessed.
"Eventually," he admitted with a rueful smile. "After bouncing off a few outcroppings on the way down."
I winced, but couldn't help laughing at the image. "Remind me never to ask demon parents for childcare advice."
His smile softened as he reached for a piece of bread. "Your turn. Tell me something I don't know about you."
We traded stories as we ate, his childhood in a realm where fire was comfort rather than danger, my first art show in college where I'd accidentally sold a piece I hadn't meant to display, his first commission for a vampire countess who'd wanted a gown that could accommodate bat transformation.
Small pieces of ourselves offered up between bites of food.
As we sat tangled together, my fingers kept finding their way back to the edges of scars visible at his collar and wrists. I couldn't help myself. They pulled at my attention like a puzzle I desperately wanted to solve.
"You keep touching them," Magnur said softly, his eyes following my fingers.
I pulled my hand back quickly. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."
"You don't," he said, catching my retreating hand and returning it to his wrist. "It's just...most people avoid them."
"I'm just curious," I admitted.
A shadow passed across his face, so brief I might have missed it if I hadn't been watching him closely.
I took a deep breath, gathering my courage. "Earlier, when I touched your scars...you said you'd tell me about them someday." I bit my lip, suddenly nervous. "Is...tonight okay? You don't have to," I added quickly. "If it's too painful or too soon or—"
"Jade," he interrupted gently. "It's okay."
I fell silent, watching as he considered my request. His expression grew distant for a moment, as if he were looking back through memories.
Just when I thought he might refuse, he shifted our position, drawing me fully into his lap so I was cradled against his chest, my head tucked beneath his chin.
One arm curled protectively around me while his other hand began tracing slow, soothing patterns down my spine, as if he were the one comforting me rather than preparing to reveal his own trauma.
"I was young once," he began. "Young by demon standards, at least. Reckless. Hungry for power in ways that now seem...childish."
I stayed quiet, understanding instinctively that he needed to tell this at his own pace. My hand rested lightly on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm.
"There was a coven of warlocks, powerful humans who had learned enough about demon physiology and magic to be dangerous.
They approached me with an offer. Power, influence, partnership.
They claimed to have developed rituals that would allow them to share magic with demons and in return receive some immortality that demons possess. "
I felt his chest expand with a deep breath before he continued.
"I was foolish enough to believe them. The ritual they performed wasn't about sharing anything," he said.
"It was a trap, designed specifically to bind a demon of my particular bloodline.
They had been hunting for one like me for decades. "
My fingers curled involuntarily against his chest, as if I could somehow protect him from a past that had already happened. "What did they do?" I whispered.
"They carved sigils into my skin," he replied, his hand leaving my back to trace a pattern on his own chest. "Binding circles, contract marks, control sigils, layers upon layers of magical restraints, each tied to a different warlock in the coven."
I tried to imagine it, the pain and betrayal, along with the dawning horror of realizing you'd walked willingly into your own cage, and found I couldn't. The magnitude of it was too vast.
"Once the binding was complete," he continued, his voice unnervingly steady, "I belonged to them.
Could only move when permitted, speak when allowed, exist where they willed me to be.
They could summon and dismiss me at will, forcing me to appear wherever they called, no matter what I was doing or where I was. "
"How long?" I asked, dreading the answer.
"Four hundred and seventy-two years," he replied without hesitation. "Long enough to watch each original warlock grow old and die, passing their portion of the binding to their children, then their grandchildren. Generations of the same families, inheriting me like property."
I felt sick.
"They used me as a weapon, primarily," he continued, his hand resuming its gentle stroking along my spine. "A guard dog, a threat, muscle to intimidate their enemies. Sometimes they experimented, testing the limits of what they could force me to do through the bindings."
"The scars..."
"Some were from the original binding," he confirmed.
"Others from reinforcements when I fought too hard against their control.
Some were punishments, others experiments, attempts to enhance certain abilities or suppress others.
A few..." his voice hardened, "a few were simply because they could.
Because I belonged to them, and they wanted to remind me of that fact. "
My hand moved to a particularly deep scar that ran from his collarbone down beneath the waistband of his pants.
"This one?" I asked softly.
"That was from the night I escaped," he said, something like grim satisfaction entering his voice for the first time.
"I had spent all my free time studying their magic, looking for weaknesses in the binding.
Magic requires concentration and accuracy or it's not as effective.
One night, one of the younger warlocks made a mistake when reinforcing a few sigils.
" His finger traced the shape in question on my back.
"Enough of a flaw that I could finally break through. "
I could feel the tension in his body as he recalled the moment. "They tried to stop me," he continued. "That particular scar was from the family blade, supposedly enchanted to kill demons. Clearly, it failed."
The dry humor in his voice made me look up at his face. His expression was distant, a strength there of survival that had been hard-won.
"After I freed myself, I spent decades hunting down every copy of the binding ritual they had created," he said.
"Destroying the knowledge so it couldn't be used again, at least not in that exact form.
Eventually, I realized I could use what I'd learned to help others, demons and magical creatures who'd been bound or trapped against their will. "