Something passes between them, a silent communication I don't fully understand, before Ivy reluctantly nods.
"I'll be nearby," she tells me, squeezing my hand before retreating.
"Thank you, Ivy," I whisper, gratitude filling my voice. "For everything." I don't have the strength to say more, but my eyes convey what words cannot—she tried to save me when no one else could, fought against Asher's barrier until her fae magic nearly broke.
The door closes behind us with a soft finality, leaving me alone with Malakai—in our chambers now, I suppose. The realization brings a strange mixture of comfort and unease that bleeds through our connection.
He carries me to the massive bathroom adjoining his bedchamber, setting me on my feet with unexpected gentleness. My legs tremble beneath me, still weak from the drugs Asher forced into my system. Without a word, Malakai steadies me, one arm around my waist, as he reaches to start the bath. The sound of running water fills the silence.
"I can do this myself," I insist, though we both know it's a lie. I can barely stand.
He ignores my protest, testing the water temperature. Steam rises from the massive black marble tub, scented with herbs I don't recognize.
"Your wounds need cleaning," he says, his voice controlled, careful. "The cut on your arm could fester if not treated properly."
I glance down at my arm, wincing at the ugly gash that runs from elbow to wrist. Ivy's healing stopped the bleeding, but the wound remains raw and angry. My dress hangs in tatters around me, stained with blood and dirt. Asher's blood. My blood. The thought sends a shudder through me. I want it all off me, but I have no strength to move.
"Let me help you," Malakai says, and it's not a command but a request—a distinction that surprises me.
I should refuse. Should insist on maintaining this last bastion of independence. But exhaustion crashes over me in a wave. He must sense it because his arms encircle me again, supporting my weight.
"Yes," I whisper, the word barely audible.
With careful hands, he removes the remains of my dress, his expression darkening as he uncovers more bruises, more evidence of Asher's brutality. I feel his rage through our connection, fury that manifests as his shadows dancing violently around us. I expect to feel exposed, vulnerable beneath his gaze, but instead, I find strange comfort in his controlled rage. It's not directed at me but for me.
As he lifts me, my hand presses against his chest. Through the fabric my fingers brush the raised edge of his scar—that jagged line running from his shoulder to his sternum that I remember seeing. My fingers trace its length without thinking, and I feel him stiffen beneath my touch.
"How did you get this?" I whisper.
His jaw tightens, shadows flickering. "An old wound. It doesn't matter."
But the way his eyes shutter, the flash of something raw and anguished before he locks it down—it tells me this scar matters very much indeed. I file the question away for later, too exhausted to press him now.
The water is perfectly warm as I slide into it, a small sigh escaping my lips as the heat begins to work on my aching muscles. Malakai kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves before taking a soft cloth and soap into his hands.
I watch him, fascinated by the transformation. Where is the monster who bottled Asher's soul? The Shadow Lord who tears apart his enemies without mercy? The man before me bears little resemblance to either as he carefully washes the blood and grime from my skin. He's gentle and silent, and something inside me breaks.
His shadows, usually so wild and threatening, calm to gentle ripples that occasionally brush my skin with feather-light touches. The contrast to Asher's violation is so stark that tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them. I don't want to break in front of him, but I end up sobbing, unable to stop myself.
"Did I hurt you?" Malakai asks immediately, his hands stilling, concern flooding through his emotions.
I shake my head, unable to speak past the tightness in my throat.
He resumes his task, working in silence as he cleans each wound, each bruise, with a tenderness I never believed him capable of. When he reaches the cut on my arm, he murmurs something in an ancient language. His shadows seep into the wound, stitching the torn flesh together without pain, leaving only a thin silver line.
"You can heal," I say, the first words I speak since entering the bath.
"When I choose to," he replies, his eyes never leaving his task. "Shadow magic can break or mend, depending on the wielder's intent."
"Like light magic," I observe.
His gaze flicks to mine, something almost like surprise in their depths. "Yes. Like light magic."
He moves behind me to wash my hair, strong fingers massaging my scalp with slow, deliberate movements that make my eyes flutter closed. I should be afraid after what happened with Asher. Should recoil from any man's touch. But Malakai's hands bring only comfort, only safety.
I can't comprehend this. Can't grasp how the monster who murdered Asher, who terrorized both courts for centuries, can touch me with such exquisite care. Nothing makes sense about why his presence calms the storm inside me when it should ignite fear.
The silence between us stretches, but it isn't uncomfortable. I sense his restraint, his focus on providing comfort rather than seeking answers. He's giving me space to process, to rebuild my defenses.
