The word keeps looping through my mind, vicious and ugly. She wassoldto that piece of shit like livestock. Like property. By her own godsdamn uncle.
My fists clench, nails biting into my palms hard enough to sting. I healed the marks Darian left on her skin—the bruise on her cheek, the cut on her lip, the finger-shaped shadows around her wrist—but that doesn't erase what he did. Doesn't change thefact that shefeltthem. That she's been living with that kind of violence for gods know how long.
And I wasn't there.
Couldn't protect her because I didn't know. Couldn't stop him because she slipped away from me at the Masquerade, disappearing into the dawn before I could even get her name.
The helplessness of it makes me want to tear something apart.
I should go back. Should fly straight to that godsforsaken village, find Darian, and break every bone in his body for what he's done to her. Make him understand exactly what happens when you hurt what'smine.
Except she's not mine. Not really.
The bond says otherwise—screams it, actually, with every beat of my heart—but Senna hasn't chosen me. Not yet. She came with me because she was terrified and desperate and out of options, not because she wants this. Wantsme.
I exhale hard, scrubbing a hand over my face.
She needs safety. Stability. Time to figure out what the hell she wants without some bastard controlling her every move. And I need to get my shit together before I do something stupid like march into that bathing chamber and?—
No. Not going there.
Footsteps sound behind me—soft, hesitant. I turn, knowing I need to get my raging thoughts under control?—
My mouth goes dry.
Senna stands at the end of the hallway, wrapped in nothing but a towel. Her dark curls are damp, clinging to her shoulders and neck, droplets of water still beading on her brown skin. The towel covers her from chest to mid-thigh, but barely. And the way the fabric molds to her curves, still slightly damp in places...
Fuck.
I've seen her before. In that stunning gown at the Masquerade, all elegant lines and hidden fire. In her simple village clothes earlier this morning, bruised and frightened but still defiant. But this?
This is different.
This is intimate. Vulnerable. And every instinct I have is roaring at me to close the distance between us, to worship every inch of her skin until she forgets what it feels like to be afraid.
"I, um." Her voice is quiet, uncertain. Those storm-gray eyes meet mine and I can see the flush creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks. "I don't have any clothes."
Right. Clothes. That's a thing people need.
I nod, trying to wrangle my brain back into some semblance of coherent thought. "We can remedy that. Tomorrow, I'll take you shopping. Get you whatever you need." The words come out rougher than I intend, my voice dropping low. "For now, I've got some things you can wear. They'll be big on you, but..."
I trail off because she's staring at me with those bright eyes, lips slightly parted, and I can feel my magic flaring under my skin. Hot and electric, responding to her nearness the same way it did at the Masquerade. The same way it's been doing since I found her again.
Goddammit.
"Stay here," I manage, and stride past her into my bedroom before I do something monumentally stupid.
I yank open a drawer, pulling out one of my tunics and a pair of sleep pants with a drawstring. They're going to drown her, but it's better than nothing.
When I turn back, she's followed me. Standing just inside the doorway now, still wrapped in that towel, still looking at me like...
Like she trusts me.
The realization hits me square in the chest, stealing my breath.
After everything she's been through—everything Darian put her through—she's standing here half-naked in my bedroom, vulnerable and exposed, and she's not afraid.
Of me, at least.
