Youwilldo this.
She trudged further into the hot spring, jaws clenched, holding her arms up, knowing the biggest trigger would be the crimson washing over her hands.
The water invaded her gown, and her tense muscles gave way to the warmth, soothing her stiff nerves. For a breath, her troubles drifted away, and she nearly dissolved into the scalding water.
She slowly lowered her arms, caressed by the soothing temperature, and her fingertips grazed the surface.
A sharp chill etched up her spine.
Without the will to stop herself, she glanced down at the scarlet liquid absorbing her lower half.
Her chest constricted.
It will never wash away.
The wet skin of her fingertips burned, like acid digesting her flesh.
She struggled across the hot spring, passing Acacius in a crazed path for the ledge, and folded over. Her head hung as she held herself up on trembling elbows against the stone. Wild tremors wracked her body. Taking deep breaths through her nose did nothing to pacify the palpitations of her racing heart.
Her gaze crawled down to the vivid, sanguine liquid that slithered around her waist. The skin of her cheeks pricked with needles, and the edges of her vision began to burn away like scorched paper.
She slammed her eyes shut.
It is not blood.
It is only water.
Nothing more.
To her surprise, Acacius’s arm wrapped around her waist from behind, and he placed his palm over her sternum, guiding her up until her shoulder blades met his chest. The metal of her necklace stamped into her skin beneath his palm.
“Breathe in,” he instructed, inhaling deeply. “Then out.” He exhaled. “Come on,” he said before another inhale, pressing firmer on her chest. The pressure was grounding, like gravity planting her feet back down against the earth. “Do it with me.”
She shook pathetically against his broad build, every instinct pleading with her to reject his comfort. But her treacherous body leaned into him, and her focus pinned on the pattern he set, integrating her lungs with his breath.
He rested his cheek against the side of her face, nudging back her hair with his chin. “Count the moths, Rina,” he murmured next to her ear. “Or the beats of my heart. Whichever you prefer. I know you can feel it against your back.”
Her awareness went to the strong stride of his pulse, echoing like timpani through her ribs. The consistent rhythm began to pacify her as her eyes jumped around the vaulted ceiling, tracking the moths.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five…
Acacius slipped his hand down her arm and cradled her knuckles.
Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven…
“It’s not blood. It’s water.” Acacius threaded his fingers through hers. “Allow me to show you?”
In the safety of his grip, an unexpected bravery broke through the palisade of her thick, marbled panic, and she nodded, slowly.
He steered their hands underwater and scooped some into her palm. It trickled in between their curled fingers and splashed into the hot spring, like the floral beverage her father made every year on Astrid’s birthday.
“What does it feel like?” He dipped their hands back under.
Marina concentrated on the texture draining through her fingers. “Like mulled wine.” He was right; it lacked the sugar, the thick adherence.
To trick her brain, she lapped her hand in a tranquil ring, creating small ripples around her fingers—an act she typically did during her baths to silence her busy thoughts.
You are safe.
