by Ali Winters
“Be still.” I almost compel the command into her but stop just as my power reaches the tip of my tongue. She is in enough pain.
Clara’s eyes are still squeezed shut. Sweat glistens across her brow.
“Where are you hurt?” I tighten my arms around her. I know the answer, but I want her to focus—to stay aware.
She takes several long, deep breaths. Several minutes pass. I could swear she’s attempting to will away the pain.
It isn’t until we are halfway up the stairs to the third floor that she finally peels open one eye. The tension in her muscles begins to subside and she looks around.
“Everywhere,” she says hoarsely. “You can put me down now.” Clara presses a palm against my chest and pushes weakly. She would not succeed with perfect health and strength, let alone with this pathetic attempt.
I ignore the demand and stride into my personal chambers. The moment my feet come to a stop at the side of my bed, Clara stops struggling. Her slender fingers dig into my jacket. I set her down gently, and she reluctantly releases her grip.
There’s no gratitude in her eyes for saving her, but a cold fury. I stare at her, unable to look away.
She returned.
I don’t understand why or how she made it all the way here by herself on horseback. I never expected to lay eyes on her again. How in the Otherworld is she here?
I suppose my declaration to kill her with Lawrence was nothing more than a lie. A weak attempt at defying Rosalie and please Elizabeth. To look on Clara’s face now, I don’t think I’d have been able to follow through. I would have always found an excuse to put it off.
Clara ends our silent stand-off first, breaking eye contact. Her scowl turns into a bemused frown as she takes in the room—the mahogany walls, the thick, equally dark materials of the bed, and the burnished metal accents.
With her presence, I notice for the first time how dark everything is, right down to the nearly black, perpetually drawn drapes.
“This room is… depressing,” she says.
I snort. She isn’t wrong. It might as well be a cave for all the cheer it holds.
“Stay here and don’t move,” I say, finally breaking out of my trance.
At my order, her narrowed gaze snaps to me, jaw clenched. Clara plants her hands on the edge of the mattress and shifts, dragging her legs off and leaning over to prepare to stand.
Demons and saints, this woman would risk further injury just out of spite.
A loud hiss escapes her lips as she bites back a whimper of pain.
“Don’t—let me heal you first.”
“No,” she snaps.
“Clara, you’re hurt.”
“I don’t care.”
“Let me heal you,” I say again slowly, trying to keep calm.
“Don’t touch me again.” Her words are full of venom.
I blink, not expecting the anger. “You can hardly move. These are demon inflicted. You could die if they injected you with enough venom—if an infection doesn’t get you sooner.”
She pushes up to stand, and I barely manage to keep myself from reaching out to stop her.
All her weight is on her uninjured leg, her face pales and breaks out in a fine sheen of sweat.
She opens and closes her mouth a few times before saying, “I am only here to talk to you. Then I will be on my way. But I would… like to get cleaned up first.” The strain of standing has her panting by the time she finishes. Demons damnit, this woman is too stubborn for her own good.
I point to the door on the far side of the room.
Clara limps toward it, each step causing a small whimper. And each whimper twists in my gut because I know she will refuse any offer of help.
She pauses midway.
“I will be leaving first thing in the morning,” she says, not even bothering to look back.
My feet move on their own accord. She only just arrived, and she expects to leave first thing in the morning—as if it would be so easy.
Stopping inches from her back, I itch to reach out to her. My hands hover over her shoulders for a moment before dropping down to my sides once more.
When she still doesn’t move, I position myself to stand in front of her. Clara turns away, refusing to look at me. I pull her into a hug, careful not to hurt her.
She places her palms on my chest and pushes. There's no power behind it.
Clara heaves a heavy sigh and leans her head against my chest, her fingers weakly grip at the sides of my shirt.
“I hate you,” she whispers, but like her efforts to push me away, there is no force behind the words. I don’t begin to understand.
We stay like this a moment longer. I don’t want to let her go. But when she finally pulls away, I relinquish my hold.
Clara keeps her head down until she reaches the door to the bathing room. She lifts her head and looks over her shoulder. Her expression is unreadable. There is something different in her, something that wasn’t there before she left.
“Clara.” Her name falls from my lips, unbidden. I hadn’t meant to speak. “Please talk to me.”
She stands still, her hand rests on the doorframe.
“Why?” she asks.
A single word has never been filled with more meaning. She isn’t asking why I want her to talk—she’s saying so much more than that.
I have no answer.
She dips her chin then goes into the bathing room, closing the door behind her.
Chapter Twenty
Clara
Tears burn my eyes as I close the door—tears caused by the pain in my muscles and bones, and tears from the turmoil of emotions I felt looking into Alaric’s eyes. Warring emotions that make me want to cling to him and run as fast as I can, and everything in between.
I massage circles into my temples with my fingers and lean back against the door to lessen the weight on my aching left leg.
My feelings are nothing more than anger.
They aren’t… they can’t be. It’s only pain and exhaustion making it seem like more.
Returning was a mistake. It was dangerous and idiotic. I could have been seriously injured getting here… but I can’t bring myself to regret it.
Every inch of my body hurts, but my leg is the worst. The burning has lessened to a dull roar—more spread out. Rather than searing, white-hot pain, it feels as though a bed of coals has been shoved under my skin. I must have struck a rock when I landed.
My clothes are covered in mud and grass stains and… blood. The leg of my trousers is ripped—my blood has dried, plastering the material to my skin.
I release a shuddering sigh and limp toward the bathtub. I turn the faucets on and adjust until it's the perfect temperature. Placing the plug at the bottom, I allow it to fill as I straighten up.
I take stock of my body, focusing on each area in turn, moving and flexing my joints. Each movement sends a stabbing pain ricocheting through my nerves. But nothing is out of place, and everything works as it ought to.
I was lucky that nothing broke when I was thrown.
It’s only once I peel off my trousers that I see why my leg hurts more than anything else. Three gashes run down the side of my lower left leg. The wounds are angry and swollen, the skin around them burns.
Alaric could heal me… but anger and pride won’t let me accept. Not when he lied. Mother used to tell me I was a prideful child. It seems little has changed since then.
I cross the room, feeling the burning ache more with each step, and grab a thin cloth from a corner cabinet. I slice it with Alaric’s shaving blade—I’m sure he’ll forgive me for dulling it.
Taking a seat on the cold tile floor, I set to wrapping it. The process seems to take an eternity, and I have to pause to breathe through the pain several times. My fingers shake and fumble as I work my way up my leg. The pressure I apply makes my stomach churn.
I sit back against the wall. The tight bandage gives me some relief from the relentless pain.
Gazing at the
giant bathtub, I watch the curls of steam rise from the hot water as it continues to fill the tub. This is a luxury I never would have dreamed about before coming to Alaric’s manor—one I’m happy to take advantage of tonight. I’ll be lucky if I have a way to boil water for future baths once I leave Windbury.
Soap bubbles up under the running facet, covering the entire surface of the water. Even from across the room, I can feel the steam curling the loose wisps of my hair.
I lift the hem of my top and suck in a sharp breath. I have to slow my movements and, eventually, I manage to remove the last of my clothing. Scrapes and cuts cover my body. My skin is mottled with bruises—an exceptionally large patch has already formed over the right side of my ribs. Well, that explains why it hurts to breathe.
I grab a towel and limp to the bath. Turning off the water, I dip a hand in to test the temperature and moan. This is just what my aching muscles need.
Dropping the towel on the floor, I grip the edge of the tub. Then, slowly, I lift my injured leg and rest the ankle on the rim. It takes more maneuvering than I’d like to admit, and a too quick movement leaves me wincing in pain for the millionth time. Steam condenses, beading up along my skin.
Finally, I manage to get one leg in the water. I sit on the edge, bracing before trying to lower the rest of my body while keeping my bandaged leg from getting wet.
Not even halfway in, my hand slips on a damp section of the porcelain, and my next breath is full of water.
Clawing at the smooth surface, I try to find purchase, to grab hold of something, anything, and fail. Every move sets my injuries ablaze.
I’ve been claimed by a vampire, outraced a higher demon through the woods and lived—but now I’m going to die in less than three feet of water. My heart skips several beats as the reality of that truth sets in.
Darkness blots out the light of the room, or maybe it’s my consciousness slipping away. Then two hands grip my shoulder and pull me up to sitting. I cough and sputter, clinging to strong arms as my breath comes in deep, raspy gulps.
Alaric stands before me, shirtless and barefoot, water dripping from his scarred arms and chest. We stare at each other for a long moment before the reality of the situation strikes.
My eyes go wide because I’m completely naked. Alaric is barefoot and shirtless. I let go of him and press my chest against the cold porcelain, nearly slipping all over again.
He grabs my shoulders again, only letting go when I’m steady. My arms dangle over the edge as I catch my breath. I feel like a drowned cat.
Then Alaric does something that threatens to send me sliding back into the water all over again.
Alaric sticks one leg in the water as if—as if he’s going to join me.
“Wh-what are you doing?” I demand.
“You need help,” he says, lowering into the tub behind me, his legs cradling my hips, forcing me to slide forward. The water sloshes and a small wave spills over the edge, but he doesn’t seem to notice or care.
I straighten my spine and lean into myself, trying to hide the rest of my body the best I can with one leg sticking up and out.
Ignoring my attempts to avoid touching him, Alaric gathers my hair and lays it over my left shoulder.
He sticks his hand out next to my face and says, “Hand me the cloth.”
My face burns, and I keep my arms crossed over my breasts as I contemplate whether I should yell at him to leave or do as he asked. But even I have to admit that he’s the only thing keeping me from going under.
I reach forward and pick up the washcloth and pass it to him.
Not that long ago, I would have bared myself to him. But injured as I am, this situation is different—things have changed—and I still haven’t said what I came back here to say.
Alaric takes the bar of soap and lathers it, then begins to scrub in slow, rhythmic circles. He starts at my neck, then moves over my shoulders, and finally my arms. When he gets to my bruises on my sides, he brushes over them with extra care, forgoing the cloth and using his bare hand. His fingers glide over the delicate skin with the softest pressure.
Not once does he try to turn this moment into something else, nor does he try to heal me. Alaric takes his time, carefully moving over every patch of skin. And against my better judgment, I relax against him.
Some strange emotion burbles up from deep within my gut. I pull in a breath as the realization of what it is, hits me with such a stumbling force, I’m left breathless.
His movements are kind. I swallow the lump in my throat that has formed at the epiphany. This is the first time that anyone has treated me with such care, without wanting or demanding something in return.
There has always been something expected from me. Money, to be presentable and play a part, to do something or be someone they wanted. Even Mother was efficient and brisk when it came to lessons and chores. She was never rough, but nor was she ever particularly caring. She never sang songs or coddled me as she had with Kathrine.
Alaric could drain every single drop from my veins right now if he wanted—there is nothing I could do to stop him. I am entirely at his mercy. But he doesn’t make a single move hinting that he will, even though I have an open wound and I know he can scent my blood. He could heal me as he washes me, ignoring my refusal because it would be easier. He could mark me a hundred times over…
He does none of those things. He is being kind for the sake of being kind.
And I don’t know how to handle this.
My eyes sting, and before I can stop it, hot tears slide down my cheeks, and my body shakes with silent sobs.
His hands still, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move. Then he turns me to the side, his hand sliding under the knee of my hurt leg to adjust it while keeping it out of the water. Alaric pulls me into his chest, holding me with one arm and stroking my hair with his other hand.
He doesn’t try to stop my tears or distract me from my feelings but lets me cry until I’m done, offering his presence, and his arms.
When the tears finally cease, I don’t move. I think they surprised him as much as they had me. I never knew I’d been missing that kindness until now. And out of anyone in this world, it had come from a man I’d once considered a monster. A man I wanted to kill for what he is.
Now I’m left wondering if I had misjudged him so horribly, then what else am I wrong about?
I lift my face to glance at him. He frowns, brows drawn together. Alaric lifts his hand to brush a thumb under my eye before pushing a strand of water-soaked hair behind my ear.
I see the question in his eyes, but he’s giving me room to tell him what that was about on my own terms.
The weight of his eyes on me makes my face heat. I turn and press my cheek into his chest. My gaze focuses on the long scars on his bicep. Reaching out, I trace a finger over one of the pale, jagged lines. His muscle stiffens beneath my touch.
“What happened?” I ask quietly, continuing to trace the lines with my finger. Water beads up along his skin and trails down his arm. He shifts behind me.
He swallows hard, and I listen to his heartbeat, convinced he won’t speak. Then, quietly, he says, “That is a story for another time.” He pulls his arm away and immediately goosebumps race over my skin at the loss of his contact. “The water is getting cold—you should get out.”
I sit forward, no longer caring if I’m covered. Alaric steps out of the tub with one fluid motion. Water puddles at his feet as he grabs the towel and extends a hand toward me.
Hesitantly, I slip my hand into his, and he helps me stand, not letting go until I am steady on my feet. His eyes remain locked on mine as if I were fully dressed.
We stand, inches apart. The only sound in the room is the soft dripping of water onto the floor and my heartbeat thundering in my veins.
Alaric wraps the towel around my shoulders, then turns and walks silently out of the room.
Chapter Twenty-One
Clara
I inch the door open and peek
out at an empty room. I close the door again and look around. An article of clothing is draped over the sink. I pat myself dry, doing my best to avoid the most tender spots.
I slip the garment over my head. The material barely covers my butt. Taking a closer look, I realize—it’s one of his shirts. Not that he hasn’t seen me wearing one the night he claimed me. The last time I wore his clothes, he ended up burning it in the fire the next morning. I wonder if it’s an attempt to remind me of our tumultuous beginning to soften my anger with him.
I should care, but then the two of us have never followed what the world would deem acceptable. We’ve created our own rules.
Not five minutes ago, he held me, stark naked, in the tub for… demons only know how long, while I cried.
I may have let him comfort me, but my reason for returning is still the same.
Limping—with far less grace than I would like—I exit the bathing room intending to wait for Alaric to return, but he’s back, standing before the fire. He turns with a bundle of what appears to be clothes in his arms.
Perhaps he hadn’t meant for me to wear his shirt after all.
He takes me in slowly, his gaze is nearly tangible.
Alaric discards the bundle onto the bed and cuts the distance between us in half.
Silence sits heavy in the air. His eyes plead with me to talk to him. To open up and be vulnerable, but I’ve already been vulnerable once today. The longer he looks at me like that, the faster my courage and angry words flee.
My mouth goes dry and my throat thickens with more unsaid words than I’m ready to voice, even after two days of riding to get here. I suck in a breath and hold it, preparing to force the words out even if it kills me.
But when I open my mouth, what comes out is, “Good night.”
I hurry past him. Though, an old man with a crooked spine and an uneven gait could walk faster.
In a blink, Alaric stands before me, blocking my path.
“Clara,” he says hoarsely. “Please stay. You are injured. It would be safer for you to remain here, with me, at least for the night.”