8
SENNA
The sound of Darian's snoring fills the small bedroom like the rasp of rusted metal against stone.
I lie still in the pre-dawn darkness, staring at the water-stained ceiling while he sprawls beside me, one heavy arm flung across the space where I'd been sleeping an hour ago. I shifted away slowly, carefully, until I was pressed against the edge of the mattress with enough room between us that I could pretend I'm alone.
That's become my favorite game lately. Pretending.
Pretending I don't notice the way he reeks of cheap ale and someone else's jasmine perfume. Pretending I don't see the lipstick smudged on his collar when he stumbles through the door after midnight. Pretending I don't feel the absence of his hands on me like a gods-damnedblessing.
Two weeks since the Masquerade.
Two weeks since he's touched me.
I should be grateful. Iamgrateful. Every night he comes home too drunk to want me is another night I don't have to lie there and endure his weight, his breath, his grunting satisfaction while I count the cracks in the ceiling and wait for it to be over.
But the gratitude tastes wrong somehow. Bitter.
Because now I know what it's supposed to feel like.
Now I know what it's like to be touched by someone who makes my body sing instead of recoil. Someone who looked at me like I was something precious instead of something owned.
Lorenth.
His name echoes through my head for the thousandth time, and that ache in my chest flares—sharp and sudden and so intense I have to press my palm against my sternum just to breathe through it.
Two weeks, and it hasn't faded.
Two weeks, and I still feel the phantom press of his hands on my skin, the taste of his mouth, the way something inside mecracked openwhen he was buried deep and whispering my name like a prayer.
Two weeks, and I can't stop thinking about running back to him.
Darian snorts in his sleep and rolls over, the mattress dipping under his weight. I freeze, holding my breath, but he just settles again with a wet smacking sound that turns my stomach.
I need to get out of here.
Carefully—so carefully—I slide out of bed. The floorboards creak under my feet, and I pause, waiting to see if he stirs. But his snoring continues undisturbed, thick and congested, and I exhale slowly.
He doesn't care if I'm gone when he wakes up. Never has. It's only when he comes home and I'm not here that he loses his mind. Only when he thinks I might've left him, might've embarrassed him in front of the whole gods-damned village by running off.
But mornings? Mornings I'm free.
I dress quickly in the dim light filtering through the thin curtains—a simple brown dress that's seen better days, my hairbraided back to keep it out of my face. My fingers fumble with the ties, clumsy in my hurry, and I have to force myself to slow down.
No point rushing. He's not going to wake up. Not with how much he drank last night.
The apartment is cramped and dark, all rough-hewn wood and cast-iron fixtures that Darian inherited when his father died. The blacksmith shop sits below us, silent now, but come midday it'll be roaring with heat and the clang of hammer on anvil. The whole building smells like ash and sweat and stale beer—smells that cling to everything, seeping into the walls until I can taste them on my tongue.
I hate it here.
I've always hated it here, but now—now it feels like suffocation. Like the walls are closing in tighter every day, crushing the air from my lungs until I can barely breathe.
Because I know what freedom tastes like now.
I know what it's like to laugh without fear. To be touched with gentleness instead of ownership. To feelwantedinstead of tolerated.
And coming back to this?—
