I press my palm to his cheek and kiss his forehead. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Nyx. We survived. We will have our revenge." He opens his mouth to say something, but I can't handle more. I'm saddened and hurting physically, mentally, and emotionally. I tap my finger to his mouth, silencing him. "Hani will be here to tend to your wounds. My room is two doors down. I need some rest, but I will visit you soon."
Without waiting for a response, I kiss his forehead once more, before hobbling to the door. As soon as it shuts behind me, all the tears I've been holding back flood my cheeks.
Forty - Three
Nyx
Ihaven't had the strength – mentally or physically – to bring myself to walk to the mirror on the other side of my room to look at the damage inflicted upon me. But today, I do and I immediately wish I hadn't.
My magic has returned, but it was far too late to heal me and spare me from scars. Slashes mar my chest, back, and one stretches down the right side of my face from my brow to lip.
Emotion blooms in my stomach and burns my lungs. I don't look like myself. I don't feel like myself. It's as if I'm having an out of body experience and this is all just a horrible nightmare I haven't woken from.
I drag my bruised hand down my face, over the scar here to stay, and tears well in my eyes. My vanity is wounded. Apart from my magic, my looks were all I had going for me. Now women will stare at me in pity, questions as to how I turned into such a monster at the forefront of their minds.
I rest my palm against the glass. The motion doesn't ground me like I was hoping. Instead, it has the opposite effect. My breathing is fragmented. My heart lurches in my chest. My head starts to spin.
"You're out of bed. Good."
The voice startles me. I retrieve my palms from the mirror and stare at the newcomer in the reflection. "I thought I'd stretch my legs –" I was expecting to see Hani with new bandages and ointments but it's not her. That face, those brown eyes. I could never forget her even if I tried.
I turn to face her. "It's you," I whisper reverently like a prayer.
She quirks a brow, setting the tray of medical supplies on the end table beside my bed.
"You're the one who rescued me," I say, which earns me a nonchalant shrug.
"Well, it was mostly Helios. He likes to show off."
"But I remember you. Your face."
She frowns. "You can stop being weird. We've established I was there."
"S-s-sorry," I stammer, taken aback by her grumpiness. "I didn't mean to stare." As if I haven't made things awkward enough, I walk toward her and extend my hand. "You're Hagar, right?"
She hesitates, eyeing me head to toe, before slipping her ringed hand into mine. "Hagar Naziri. And you're Nyx Harland."
"And Helios is your twin?" I reiterate the information from yesterday, fumbling over my words. It's like I've never talked to a woman before.
"Older than me by two minutes and he loves telling everyone." She retrieves her hand long before I'm ready for her to and motions to the mirror. "Hani was scheduled for patrol late last night so she asked me to switch out your bandages, but I can come back when you're done admiring yourself."
My face drops and I swallow back the emotions I was battling before she walked in. There's a slight shift in her eyes and her shoulders tense. Of course, she's uncomfortable looking at me. I should get used to this feeling; it'll chase me the rest of my life. I lean to grab my shirt draped over the back of the chair, but she grabs my wrist, drawing my gaze.
"Don't."
"Like what you see?" I attempt to joke which makes me feel worse. She closes the gap between us, eyes shrouded with a seriousness that makes me uncomfortable.
"Don't hide your scars," she commands, but I disregard her words and grab the shirt.
I slip one arm into the sleeve. Her hand presses against my chest, stopping me from completely dressing. With unwavering eye contact, she slowly removes the shirt and drops it on the floor. With a firm gentleness, she twists me toward the mirror and I watch as she traces her fingers over the cuts and forming scars on my back. Silently, she moves her hand to my chest.
"What are you doing?" I ask, spurred to be on the defensive of whatever she might throw at me.
"Apart from needing to clean them?" Her eyes flick up, meeting mine in the reflection. "Admiring your strength."
"My disfigurement is what you mean to say. Admiring my disfigurement."
Her face hardens. "Scars are stories, Nyx Harland. Proof that what tried to break you failed."
