But she’s breathing—barely—and that’s the only reason the sky still stands.
Her lashes flutter against her cheek, but the warmth hasn’t returned to her skin. I don’t trust her stillness, not with the sedative still creeping through her bloodstream.
The beast in me thrashes, desperate to cover her in our scent, to erase every trace that someone else had their hands on her.Nai’tharûn ves saelûn. Eyn’vela narh veskael.(I was made for you, soulbond. There is no version of this life where I let you go.)
My claws, dulled but still dangerous, brush the hair back from her face. I whisper vraksûn promises into her skin, barely more than a breath. “Veyr’sal ves’krae, Saelûn. Vireth’nai ves kaemorin. Ael’vaerûn ves thorin, narh’mirae ves kael’thar.”(The frost marks you, soulbond. Your body belongs to me. My scent will be your shield, and my wrath their ruin.)
I press my mouth gently to her temple, just long enough to seal the vow. “Thae’verin narh veskae, Saelûn. Ael’mirae ves’kai, ael’morin ves’thar.” (Let them try to take you from me, soulbond. I will stay through death, I will guard you through war.)
Her breath stutters, and my heart breaks in time with it.
I want to kill someone.
I want to killeveryone.
But she needs me whole, so I become whole for her.
I gather her into my arms, careful with her limbs as I rise from the floor. Once she’s secure against my chest, I stroll to the door. My shoulders are too broad for the frame; I have to turn sideways to avoid jolting her.
I carry her through every shadow of the apartment, checking each corner and lock with deliberate precision.
The tang of copper, disinfectant, and wilting wildflowers wafts in the air. The sink is clean, but the sting of sanitizer clinging to the tiles burns my nose. The wound he cleaned.The skin he touched.
I hold her closer, willing the images away.
The worst of it waits in her bedroom—where that artificial scent hangs thickest. A drawer hangs open on her dresser, and her journal sits exposed, opened to the middle, as if he knewexactly what he was searching for. I close it and tuck it back inside.
Only once I’m sure there’s no one here, and that no one can get back in, do I exhale.
That’s when I notice she’s barefoot. Her boots aren‘t scattered; they’re tucked neatly in the closet next to all her others.
The beast inside me howls when he thinks of someone undressing her, even if it was just her shoes.
My jaw tenses as I lower us both to the edge of her bed, resting her in my lap. She doesn’t wake, but her pulse flutters a little stronger at her throat. I keep one hand pressed there while the other reaches for the blanket she snuggled into earlier.
I drape it across her lap, then stop.
Her jeans are stiff and damp, her hoodie is caked with dry mud, and the skin peeking out from her collar is bruised and dirty.
I don’t want to strip her of her clothing, but she’ll get sick if I leave her like this.
My hands tremble as I ease her hoodie up. I move with reverence, not hunger. Like I’m peeling away a curse.
Underneath, she’s wearing a soft, thin t-shirt. It’s damp and clinging to her skin. I don’t take it off; I wrap a towel around her to warm her up. I keep her covered with one hand while the other carefully unbuttons her jeans, but the zipper sticks from the cold. I grab the stiff denim at her waist and slide the jeans down her hips. I work slowly, letting the fabric pool at her ankles before pulling them free.
Her legs are freezing. A red mark blooms along her shin. Bruises cover her knees. They will pay for this. I press a kiss to each one, silent and full of promise. Then, gently, I ease the damp shirt over her head.
I clean her skin with quiet hands and warm water, shielding her from the cold. Only uncovering what I must. Never looking where I shouldn't.
I dress her in the softest clothes I can find, sweats, and a shirt that smells like her, but beneath her scent, I can still pick up the other. I’ll carry it with me until their blood washes it clean.
Before I join her in the bed, I kneel at the foot of it, claws curling into my palms. I don’t have my blade. That would make this easier. But maybe this shouldn’t be easy, since I failed her.
With a sharp breath, I reach up and grip one of the outer branches of my right antler. I brace the base, clench my jaw, and snap downward. The break isn’t clean, and white-hot pain shoots through my temple—a piece of me for her.
The shard drops into my palm, warm and jagged, soaked with ancient marrow.
I whisper the rite beneath my breath: “Kael’sharûn. Veskal narh ves thalûn.”(Shard-warding. The gods will judge what steps near her now.)
