The walls were rough wooden planks, grain warped and splintering with age. The pine floor was partially covered with straw mats that cracked beneath every movement. A single window—draped with a torn, stained curtain—filtered in a thin, sickly beam of light. Against one wall sat a plain wooden dresser holding a chipped porcelain basin and pitcher, their contents still and cold.
I groaned and collapsed onto the straw-stuffed pillow, wincing at its scratchy texture. Dread crept through me like a slow bleed. HadZara brought me here? Was this some new chamber of torment? A fresh hell dressed in rustic charm?
Before I could form a plan to flee, the door creaked open.
A man stepped inside.
I let out a panicked screech and curled into myself, every bruised nerve screaming. My limbs barely obeyed. I was too broken to fight, too exhausted to run.
The man raised his hands nonthreateningly. “You’re safe here. You’ve been hurt. Who did this to you?”
I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. Not truthfully. And I wasn’t about to let him know I understood his words. Not yet.
He was tall, around thirty, with sun-darkened skin and a laborer’s frame—broad shoulders, sinewy arms. His eyes caught what little light there was, revealing stormy green and blue swirls like a sea before a tempest. His chestnut hair was swept back from his brow, accentuating sharp cheekbones and a squared jaw dusted with stubble. He wore a plain linen shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and worn boots caked with dirt.
“Where are you from?” he asked. “Can you tell me your name?”
His voice was gravel-rough, but there was warmth—a gentleness beneath the grit.
“Non ti capisco,” I muttered, curling deeper into the blanket, my voice barely audible.
He tilted his head, brow furrowed, lips tightening with mild frustration. Hands on hips, he studied me like a riddle missing half its lines.
“Hmmm,” he grunted, then raised a finger and left the room.
I lay there, breath ragged, body trembling—panting like a bitch in heat, ashamed of how wrecked I felt.
When he returned, he carried a damp cloth and the porcelain pitcher. He poured the water into the basin, knelt beside me, and dipped the cloth in. He wrung it out with careful hands, then reached to touch my face.
“No!” I snapped, shoving his hand away with more force than I thought I had.
He sighed, then offered another “Hmmm,” before disappearing again.
When he came back this time, he held a broken shard of looking glass. Without a word, he knelt and held it up so I could see myself.
I gasped.
My reflection was barely recognizable bruises bloomed like wildflowers across my cheeks, my nose and lips swollen and split. Thin cuts covered my jaw and neck, and a long, angry gash snaked down from my ear to my collarbone. Blood, thick and sticky, had crusted at the edges of the wound.
My hands shook as I brushed my tangled hair away, revealing the extent of the damage.
And then I saw it—Layla.
Her face, misshapen and grotesque from my torture, hovered in my mind like a ghost. And now... I looked like her. Iwasher. The agony. The humiliation. The raw terror. All of it echoed through my broken body.
Oh, God. This was what she felt like before the end.
Rage surged through me—white-hot and directionless. I wanted to scream. To throw something. To rip the world apart. But I was too weak. All I could do was lie there, wrapped in the pain I had once inflicted.
The man dipped the cloth again, then paused, holding it up, silently asking for permission.
“No,” I said again, softer this time, my voice barely more than a breath. I pushed his hand away, tears in my bruised eyes. “I don’t deserve that.”
I didn’t deserve kindness.
With a soft plop, he let the cloth slip from his fingers into the basin. Then he stood there, watching me with that unreadable frown. It wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t cold. But it pierced deeper than any blade.
Even though it looked hurt.
