I lie down in bed. I took a shower, washed my new haircut and the wounds that are not present anymore. My skin felt filthy, like something awful happened. I feel the mattress sink as Braxton lies down next to me. I move and turn around. I touch the tattoos on his tensed shoulder, and it is the first time I catch him shivering under my touch. I trace the tattoo that represents his mom’s signet.
“We should talk,” I imply. He spins around, facing me. He is so close I feel his breathing touch my face.
“Hi,”I whisper, looking into those beautiful blue, greenish eyes. I feel kind of shy at once. My hands fidget nervously until he grabs them.
“Hi, Honey,”he breathes out. His inhale is shuttered. His hand cups my face. “I am not sure how I can tell you what happened.” He sighs, not breaking eye contact, but his eyes change.
“Just tell me, use your words. It is not like I already feel awful because of what happened with Hazel,” I try to say, but it comes out shaky.
“What do you remember?” he asks.
So I tell him the few things I know.
He looks away.
“That man,” he starts. “He tortured you. I was locked behind an invisible wall until my brother freed me,” he explains, locking his jaw in place. Like what he did to you? I almost ask. “He was a healer. You stood no chance. He took advantage of you and then—” He closes his eyes. What did he do?
“He tried to sexually assault you. He wouldn’t let go of your hair. I had to cut it. I am so sorry,” he rattles, and his eyes wellup with water and it is the second time I see him show that much emotion. Does he care about me? He doesn’t react to my silent question, and I take in the news. I need to find a way to make him feel better.
“I always wanted to cut my hair anyway,” I joke, but the words come out blurry and my lips are shaky. His calloused thumbs brush the tears on my cheeks away.
It might not come as a shock that I crawled against him that night, seeking for the comfort I so desperately need.
A cold breeze brushes my skin softly. The blanket moves a bit and his warm body isn’t heating me anymore. I hold my eyes closed as I try to find out what Braxton is doing. Is he leaving? Again? I hold my breath as the door of our room opens.
And as I suspected, the door closes with a soft thud and no goodbye.
Chapter 34
Braxton
Revenge.
I repeat the word in my head over and over.
It’s like a mantra, only this one thunders through my head, and I have no control over how many times it repeats. I always told myself I wanted to be good enough, someone’s first choice. My parents’ first choice. But I’m already seen as a monster, so why not make use of the title the king handed me?
Darkness takes me in as I close the door of our room. I don’t want to take Eliane with me, but her light would bring me some comfort. I did survive all those years in the dungeons without her, so I will probably be fine.
I am looking for a man.
Not only the man that hurt Eliane, but also for the man that murdered Hazel.
And as lucky as I am, they appear to be the one and same person.
When I made Eliane look away, I watched carefully.
The blond-haired torturer snapped Hazel’s neck as she was in the palace. I assume she was trying to sneak in to find Eliane ortalk to me or my brother. Going for girls three times as small. She also didn’t stand a chance of hurting or fighting this man.
But I do.
He must be in the dungeons. The place I usually avoid if I am not being dragged to them. The torturers do what they need to do all around the clock. The mastermind behind all of this is the king. But what this man did was his own choice. My feet blast under me and sweat trickles over my body. Every muscle in my body is tensed as the door of the long hallway covered in dungeons swings open. My body stops as I get a déjà vu. The nightmare. The invisible wall. Except it isn’t here this time.
Screams fill my ears along with the sharp crack of slaps. A belt, a sound I would recognize anywhere, even in a crowd of a thousand people. I follow the sound. My eyes glance into the cell the sounds come from. A boy crawls away against the corner. The cold brick wall being the only thing that brings comfort to that hurting, broken body. Blood on the wall makes it hard for me to swallow and sour, liquids fill my mouth. The boy can’t be more than fourteen years old.
I step in front of the dungeon and the boy’s eyes scan me from head to toe.
“I command you to stop hurting the poor thing.”
