“Language,” he murmured, and when he reached for my tunic once more, I lifted it myself. “Thank you.”
I gritted my teeth.
A small smile appeared as he shifted onto his knees, pulling a clear bottle from the basket. He unscrewed the lid, and a bitter, sharp scent hit the musty air.
“I want to tell you a story,” he said, his brows lowered as he eyed the wound.
“I am not in the mood for story time—” I gasped as he took hold of my shirt. I gripped his wrist with both hands, barely feeling the cold of the chain against my stomach. “What are you doing?”
“The blade damn near ripped out your ribcage,” he said, eyes flashing an unholy gold once more. “It extends up the side of your ribs.”
The wound wasn’t that bad, but it did crawl up my side.
“I’m guessing this happened when the sword was wrestled from you?” he asked.
I didn’t answer, and when I didn’t let go of his wrists, I expected him to simply break my hold, but instead, he sighed. “Believe it or not, I’m not trying to undress you so I can take advantage of you. I’m not here to seduce you, Princess.”
What should have come as a relief had the opposite effect. The burn in my chest crept into my throat, forming a knot I could barely breathe around as I stared up at him. Of course, he wasn’t trying to seduce me. Not since he’d already succeeded in doing so, getting me to not only let my guard down but to also trust him. I’d opened up to him, shared with him my dreams of becoming something else, my dread of returning to the capital and—oh, gods—my gift. I’d shared so much more than just words. I’d let him into my room, into my bed, and then into me. He’d whispered that my touch had consumed him, and he’d worshipped my body, my scars. He’d told me that they made me even more beautiful, and I…
I’d liked him.
I’d done more than just like him.
Gods, I’d fallen for him even though it was forbidden. I’d fallen for him enough that I knew deep down it had played a role in my decision to tell the Queen that I would refuse the Ascension. A tremor coursed through my fingers as the burn in my throat filled the backs of my eyes.
“Was any of it true?” The question erupted from me in a hoarse voice I barely recognized, and the moment the words were set free, I wanted to take them back because I knew…I already knew the answer.
Hawke went as still as the statues that had adorned the foyer in Castle Teerman. I jerked my hands away. A muscle ticked in his jaw as his lips remained pressed firmly together.
A ragged, brittle sob climbed up my throat, and it took everything in me to keep it inside. That did very little to ease the shame that sat in the center of my chest like a hot coal. I will not cry. I will not cry.
Unable to look at him any longer, I closed my eyes. It didn’t help. I immediately saw how he’d gazed at me, lips swollen and glossy. Anger and shame, and a deep hurt I’d never experienced before pricked at my eyelids.
I felt his hands move then, carefully lifting the tunic, stopping short of exposing my entire chest. This time, his knuckles didn’t brush my skin, and like before, even in the dim light, I knew the paler, almost shiny patches of scarred flesh were visible, especially to the eyes of an Atlantian. Last night, I’d disrobed for him and had let him look his fill, believing what he’d said. He’d been so convincing, and my stomach churned at the thought of what he must’ve really thought.
How he must’ve really felt when he touched the scars, kissed them.
He spoke into the silence then, startling me. “This may burn.”
I thought his voice sounded gruffer than normal, but then I felt him lean closer, and the first splash of lukewarm liquid hit the wound. Air hissed through my teeth as scorching pain lanced the right side of my stomach and up my ribs. The bitter astringent scent rose as the liquid bubbled in the cut, and I welcomed the sting, focusing on it instead of the throbbing ache in my chest.
Tipping my head back, I kept my eyes closed as more liquid splashed along the injury, creating more foam and sending another wave of pain shuddering across my midsection.
“Sorry about that,” he muttered, and I almost believed that he was. “It will need to sit for a bit to burn out any infection that may have already been making its way in there.”
Great.
Maybe it would burn through my stupid heart.
Silence fell, but it didn’t last long. “The Craven were our fault,” he said, startling me. “Their creation, that is. All of this. The monsters in the mist. The war. What has become of this land. You. Us. It all started with an incredibly desperate, foolish act of love, many, many centuries before the War of Two Kings.”