The silk sheets are soft against my skin, the blanket heavy as it warms my body, but I’m numb to the comfort.
I am sick.
Timothy’s blood has long since been washed away, yet somehow, I feel as though I’ll never be clean again. The sins of my decisions have always been heavy, but tonight, they’re crushing me beneath their weight.
If only I had listened.
If only I hadn’t been so stuck in my ways. Then maybe Timothy would still be here.
He’d be living. Breathing. Existing.
My eyes are puffy and swollen, the corners of my lids tender, but my tears dried long ago, drummed out by the pulsing beat of anger.
The rebel king sent his people to kill me.
But they missed, and now I will make him wish for death.
No one has spoken to me since we arrived back through the castle gates. No additional guard has been sent to stand outside of my bedroom. No consoling touches or reassuring words.
Not that I deserve them.
My heart squeezes tight. I had thought maybe my uncle would show, but he’s been a ghost along with everyone else.
A low rumbling sound vibrates across the walls, but I don’t turn to see. Not even when footsteps creep behind me and the mattress dips beneath a person’s weight.
I’m too drained to move, too broken to care.
“Ma petite menteuse. What am I going to do with you?” Tristan’s voice caresses my body like a kiss, creating a chasm in the center of my chest. I glance down when his tattooed arm encases my waist, pulling me flush against the hard planes of his body and hugging me tight.
It’s a simple act, but it pricks at the wound in my heart; the one I’ve bandaged and tried to pretend isn’t there.
A tear drips down my cheek, hot and salty, as it cascades over my lips and seeps into my mouth. My simple white cloth nightgown is the only barrier between us, and his fingers stroke over my stomach, petting me—comforting me—as if I deserve consoling.
His breath whispers against the juncture of my neck, warm kisses peppered along my skin. They’re tender, and so different from everything I’ve known Tristan to be, but I welcome them all the same.
In a world of people who don’t see me, sometimes, it feels as if he’s the only one who does.
Another tear escapes, dripping off my chin.
His arm moves, hands pressing against my hips as he turns my body until I’m flat on my back, his green eyes sharp as he hovers, scanning the length of me.
“Are you hurt?” he asks, his fingers coming up to wipe away the wet from my cheeks.
I shake my head, a stuttered breath escaping from deep in my lungs, my heart splinting as it tries to break the icy hold my guilt has encased it in.
He nods, his features relaxing. He strokes along the planes of my face. Beneath my eyes, over the cupid’s bow of my lips, down the bridge of my nose. Over and over, he repeats the motion, and slowly, the weight of my grief becomes a little less to bear, as if he’s lifting it from me and keeping it for himself.
“Tell me what you need,” he says.
My chin quivers and I turn my head to the side, not wanting to let him see me be so weak.
His hand cups my jaw, turning my face back to his. “Tell me what you need, Sara. And I will give it to you.”
I think about my answer, a thousand different emotions mixing in my gut, but the one closest to the surface wins.
Rage.
It presses against my skin, trying to burst through and spread through the entire city, obliterating everything in its path.
“I want you to find who did this.” My voice cracks. “And I want them dead.”
The words feel bitter on my tongue, but I don’t take them back.
His eyes flash and he leans down, pressing his forehead against mine, our lips so close we’re breathing the same air. “Done.”
He says it with such conviction, such surety, that I don’t doubt him for a moment. And the way he stares, as though he’s diving into my soul and seeing every part, makes me feel like I could ask him for the world, and he’d tear it to pieces just to fit it in my hands.
Being so cared for breaks something apart in the center of my chest, like concrete boulders slamming against stone walls. Every single reason I’ve had for denying myself, for trying to keep him at arm’s length, shatters with each swipe of his fingers.
Maybe that makes me selfish. Maybe I don’t deserve it.
But in a world full of pain, he’s my only respite.
My fingers reach up to tangle in his hair.
“Kiss me,” I breathe.
He does. Without question. With no hesitation. He drops, melding his lips to mine, his soft touch turning to a firm hold, keeping me together while my pieces break apart.
My mouth opens wider as his tongue sinks inside, and arousal curls its way around my body. It’s heavier than usual, tinged with sorrow, but somehow despite that—maybe even because of it—everything feels like more.
He groans when I suck on his bottom lip, his hips driving into the space between my legs until his thick cock is pressing against my center. My back arches, fingers tearing at his strands as I mold myself to his body, needing to get closer. To feel deeper.
Maybe if I drown myself in him, I won’t suffocate from the pain.
His palm cups my breast, his fingers teasing the nipple through the thin fabric of my gown. He breaks his lips away from mine, moving to skim the corner of my jaw, and then farther down, latching on to my neck. His teeth nip the skin until it stings, making goose bumps sprout along every inch of my body.
I moan, wetness dripping from my core and sticking to the inside of my legs, wishing he would touch me where I need him.
He hesitates, pulling back and gazing into my eyes, and for a slight moment, I worry that he’ll change his mind.
But with Tristan, I should know better.
Another tear trickles down the length of my face, and I reach to wipe it away, but he grips my hand tight, and then moves to grab the other, placing them above my head and tangling our fingers. He leans in, his lips moving from the base of my jaw to the corner of my mouth, his tongue swiping against my skin as he kisses the evidence of my pain away.
“Sara,” he murmurs.
Our lips meet again, and my desire ratchets higher, heat making my insides throb. I press my hips into his, wrapping my legs around his waist to pull him in deeper. He groans, the sound vibrating through my mouth and sinking into my bones, and I shudder from the feeling. It’s intoxicating; seeing someone like him get lost in passion and knowing I’m the cause.
His fingers tighten around mine, and he presses our hands deeper into the pillows as he pulls back to gaze into my eyes. “You’re mine.”
It isn’t a question.
I nod anyway, lifting so I can speak it into his lips. “Yours.”
Maybe I should feel embarrassed—weak—as if I need a man to claim me. But when he lets go of my hand and brings his down to the neckline of my gown, pulling until it tears, all I feel is power.
And I’m desperate for him to fill me with it until I scream.
Just like he promised.
