Mikel studied him for a long moment, then turned to the officers. “Wait in the hallway,” he ordered.
The officers filed out, leaving the door open at Mikel’s back. Still, he remained, standing straight, hands clasped behind his back in military precision.
Finally, Mikel cleared his throat as if snapping himself from some trance. “I’ll be outside if you need anything,” he said, his voice low. “I will step back inside at noon to collect you.”
He said nothing else as he turned to the door, closing it behind him with a finality that echoed in the quiet apartment.
Greyson stood motionless, staring at the closed door, feeling the seconds tick away toward the inevitable. Then he turned to Shadera.
Shameburnedhotterthanpain as Shadera forced her battered body to move. Every cell screamed in protest, every breath a fresh agony as broken ribs shifted beneath her skin. But she couldn’t stay here, couldn’t bear the weight of Greyson’s gaze on her ruined form a moment longer. She had to hide. Had to get away from those eyes that held so much pity. She would rather endure another beating than see that look on his face again.
She pushed herself up from the sofa, swallowing the cry that rose in her throat. Her vision swam, darkness encroaching at the edges as blood rushed from her head. One step. Then another. Her legs trembled beneath her, threatening to fold with each movement. The bedroom door seemed miles away, an impossible distance across the luxury apartment that mocked her broken state with its pristine surfaces and soft furnishings.
Don’t look at him. Don’t let him see what they’ve made of you.
Greyson took a step toward her, his arms reaching for her, preparing to help. She took a step away from him and his body froze mid-motion, his fingers curling into fists as he brought his arms back to his body.
She dragged herself forward, one arm wrapped protectively around her shattered ribs. She could feel Greyson’s eyes on her back, burning into her, but she didn’t turn. Couldn’t face the judgment, the disgust, the hatred that would be written there.
The bedroom door gave way under her touch, swinging open to reveal the only place she suddenly felt safe. Her gaze fixed on the bathroom door across the room. Just a little further. Just a few more steps and she could collapse in private, could let the tears come without an audience to witness her final humiliation.
Her foot caught on the bed’s edge, sending her stumbling. Pain exploded through her chest as her broken ribs protested the sudden movement. Still, she bit back the scream, refused to give voice to her weakness.
She made it to the bathroom, her hand closing around the doorknob as if it were a lifeline reaching out to her. She put her weight onto it as she dragged herself the last few steps into the room. The door swung closed as she let go of the knob and grabbed on the towel rack.
Only then did she allow herself to sag against the cool wall, legs finally surrendering to gravity. She slid down slowly, each inch a fresh torment, until she sat crumpled on the floor, knees drawn up as far as her battered body would allow, trying to catch her breath.
The marble tiles were cold against her skin, a small mercy in the inferno of pain that was her existence. She stared at her reflection in the glass shower door—a stranger looked back at her. A creature of bruises and blood, one eye swollen shut, the other haunted and hollow. Her face was misshapen, cheekbone possibly fractured, jaw bruised and tender. Her hair hung in matted strands, stiff with dried blood.
This was what remained of Shadera Kael, the Daggermouth. This broken thing on the bathroom floor.
She pushed herself toward the bath, reaching up to turn the faucets with hands that shook violently. Water thundered into the tub, steam rising to fog the mirrors, to blur her reflection into something less monstrous. The sound would mask her tears, her weakness, would hide from Greyson the final dissolution of whatever strength he might have thought she possessed.
Tears came then, hot and stinging as they tracked down her battered face, mixing with fresh blood where they found cuts not yet closed. Her shoulders shook with silent sobs that sent waves of agony through her chest, but she couldn’t stop them now. Everything she’d held in during the beatings, during the endless hours in that cell—it all poured out of her in a flood she had no power to contain.
The water continued to rain down, its roar almost loud enough to drown out the sound of her own shuddering breaths. Almost, but not quite. She needed to get in, to wash away the blood and filth, to feel clean again, if only for a moment. But the thought of removing her clothes, of seeing the full extent of what they’d done to her body, made her stomach heave.
Still, she had to try. Had to at least attempt this tiny reclamation of dignity before they forced her onto that platform to play her part in Maximus’s twisted ceremony.
Her hands found the counter’s ledge, using every last ounce of her strength to pull herself upward.
She gripped the hem of her torn shirt, steeling herself for what was to come. Then, with a quick breath that sent knives between her ribs, she tried to lift it over her head.
The pain was immediate and overwhelming. White-hot agony ripped through her torso as her arms raised, pulling at muscles that had been pulverized, at skin that had been split open and should’ve beenstitched back together. A scream tore from her throat before she could stop it, primal and raw, echoing off the tiled walls.
Her vision tunneled, darkness rushing in as her legs gave way beneath her. She was falling, dimly aware that her body was about to hit the unforgiving bathroom floor, that the impact would be one agony too many. But the blow never came.
Arms caught her, breaking her fall, cradling her against a solid chest. She felt herself being lowered gently to the floor, heard her name being called from what seemed like a great distance.
“Shadera. Shadera, look at me.”
Greyson’s voice, urgent and tight with an emotion that didn’t sound like disgust, that didn’t sound like hate. His hand cupped her face, thumb brushing across her injured cheek with impossible gentleness.
The contact broke something in her—some final wall that had been holding back the tide of her grief and shame and despair. A sob ripped from her chest, then another, until she was crying openly, ugly sounds tearing from her throat as she curled into herself.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped between sobs, the words falling from her lips in a desperate litany. “I’m so sorry. For everything. For Brooker. For not knowing. You were right. I am a murderer. I am a monster.”
Her good eye sought his face through the blur of tears, searching for some hint of forgiveness, of understanding, but it refused to focus.
