Chapter 3: Bruises

***Fiona

I dipped my feet into the hot water. The bottoms were filthy, caked with days’ worth of dirt and grim. But the filth was the last thing on my mind as I submerged my entire body into smooth watery heaven. It took everything not to moan as the heat wrapped me like silk.

My blood-tainted hair dropped lazily into the tub. I’d have to pick the leaves and twigs caught in the tangles with my good hand. The wrappings held my shoulder tightly in place for now, but I’d need to redo the bandages after my bath.

But in this moment, this was everything I needed. Every part of me cringed with pain. I couldn’t move my arms without fire shooting down my back… but I was free.

I escaped.

My eyes stung, and silent tears dripped down my face, allowing light droplets to fall and echo into the pool of sitting water. I was taught to cry quietly. To mourn in silence.

He didn’t like noise. He didn’t like my complaining. And he definitely didn’t accept my refusal.

Three years and a broken soul… broken body - that’s what he left me.

Three years it had taken me to find a way out. How many nights I laid on that cold, cement floor wishing death would just take me. That the Goddess would release me from that nightmare. But he wouldn’t even give me that.

My mate.

I winced.

And now this human… such pity in his eyes as his stare cast over me. My fingers trailed to the scars between my legs. The scars my mate made damn sure would never heal, tattooed into each side of my inner thighs.

Did the man see those? Humiliation tore at my chest. The sob heaved deep in my throat, but no sound came.

I sucked in the pain. Plucked out the noise.

---

I wrapped the towel around my body and pressed another to my damp hair. I opened the door and there the hunter stood, holding clothes out. Women’s clothes. My brow tipped.

“My wife’s. My late wife. She died… years ago. She wasn’t nearly as small as you but at least you’ll have something to wear,” he said, avoiding my gaze. I took the clothes from his hand and retreated back to the bathroom.

He cleared his throat, “Upstairs. You can stay there tonight. There’s no door since it’s only a loft but you’ll have complete privacy.”

I nodded in appreciation and shut the door behind me.

So, he lived here alone. That I had already surmised. But widow? He didn’t look old enough to be a widow.

A short stubble grazed his strong chin. Deep penetrating brows grooved along his forehead. Dark, rich waves fanned his face, long and wispy as they brushed over his plaid button shirt where broad shoulders hid underneath.

He had rolled up his sleeves before stitching me up, and I noticed the veins in his forearm, pulsing along those thick throbbing muscles. Tattoos slinked from under his shirt.

His skin was bronzed, no doubt from his labor outside. When his large palm had reached up my back to brace my neck, goosebumps rushed over my naked skin. I tried to concentrate on the pain, the pelting drumming pain that shot through my shoulder in that moment.

But his eyes… hazel like ember gemstones. They flickered gold in the light, as if stoked from a granite hearth. But there was something drowning in the distance, a sadness reaching through that he tried to hide under furrowed brows.

I shook the image from my head.

I’d leave in the morning. I’d take the night to recover and rest up. My wolf and I would be out by daybreak. But food… I hadn’t eaten in a couple days. Kaia, my wolf, caught a rabbit and a couple mice during our escape but my stomach grumbled at the very thought of a cooked meal.

A heavenly aroma wafted through the doorway. I walked out wearing an oversized shirt and long sweatpants which dragged along the floor with each step. I tied them tightly and still they fell low on my hips. I caught the widow’s eyes as I rounded the corner.

Pain edged his gaze as he took in my clothes. His dead wife’s clothing. I wanted to apologize. Wanted to strip them off… offer them back up. But he blinked away any emotion and replaced it with a hardened glare, walking back to the stove. He reappeared with two bowls, placing one in front of me and the other on his side of the wooden kitchen table.

The table I had just bled on. But it was clean now, no evidence of me nor my bloody arrow.

The bowls were filled with warm chili. My mouth salivated. I gave a flat smile as I took the spoon he offered. At first, I tried to be lady, eat slowly and take small bites, but the more I ate, the greedier I became. By the time I finished, I had practically licked the bowl clean and guzzled the entire glass of water he left for me.

He laughed heartily. My cheeks flushed, realizing he had been watching me the whole time. I smiled bashfully.

A crackling fire brushed succulent heat against our backs. We pushed our bowls forward and he leaned into his chair, looking me over. His eyes were gentle but inquisitive. I could sense the questions, tipping his tongue, and I stood up immediately. I took his bowl with mine and went to the sink.

I couldn’t stand the quiet, undisturbed air between us.

Finally, he spoke, “Name’s Julian. I’ve lived out here for the last few years. Keep mostly to myself. Like I said I’m a widow. But you’re free to use any of Mae’s stuff. They’re just collecting dust any way.” I turned my head over to him and nodded my thanks, returning to the sink of soapy suds.

“You don’t talk much do you? And I thought I was the quiet one,” he chuckled to himself.

Calloused hands rubbed against his tight lips and he paused for a moment. “So, what are you? I mean I’ve heard stories… legends about haunted woods but I thought those were folk tales. Stuff mothers told their kids to keep them from wandering too far out. Guess those weren’t fairy tales, huh?” I said nothing.

He cleared his throat. “Can I at least get your name?”

My shoulders tensed and a bit of anxiety pinched my stomach. I knew he would ask sooner or later. I let out a sigh.

My eyes scanned around the small living room. I walked over to an old armchair and found a scrap of paper and pen on the side table next to it. His eyes followed me back as I laid the materials in front of him and spelled out the word: F-I-O-N-A.

I didn’t look up from the table as I slid the paper across to his side. I felt his gaze on me, drafting up the back of my neck. The words he wanted to say... the questions he dared to ask.

But he only replied, “Fiona… It’s nice to meet you.”

My head whipped around, meeting his eyes and I smiled.