Let me heal

He moves to sit by my bed again, his massive presence shrinking as he tries to appear smaller, less threatening.

His piercing eyes, which I’d heard could compel armies to kneel, look at anywhere but me, flitting to the window, the floor, his own hands. He’s nervous. The King is nervous.

Then, he slowly reaches for my hand. It’s not a snatch, but a careful, telegraphed movement, a question asked without words. Still, my body’s memory betrays me.

I flinch away so hard I nearly pull a muscle in my side, my hand disappearing under the blanket. I can’t help it. A reaching hand has never meant comfort; it’s always the prelude to a grip of iron, a yank of the hair, a restraint while other pains were inflicted.

“You’re safe with me, Ivory.”

His words are a vow, soft and solemn. Yeah, right, I think, the cynicism a cold shield around my battered heart.

That’s not what the stories of what you have done say. The rivers of blood, the entire covens decimated for a slight. That’s the King I know.

He stands again, a portrait of frustration, and runs a hand through his thick, dark hair. Even through my fear, a treacherous, detached part of me notes the sheer, breathtaking gorgeousness of this man—the sculpture of his face, the raw power coiled in his frame. I watch, hypnotized for a moment, as his adam’s apple bobs up, then down, a physical manifestation of his struggle.

“Damn it, I can’t do this,” he mutters, and my blood runs cold. He’s done pretending. The rage is coming.

My muscles coil, ready for the pain, my mind starting its well-worn process of retreating to a far, unreachable corner of itself. But what he does next is more terrifying than any fury.

He stops, takes a breath that seems to steady his entire being, and sits again. This time, his resolve is like granite. Before I can prepare, he reaches out and gently but firmly grabs my hand, his large, warm palm enveloping my cold fingers.

A shockwave shoots up my arm. My whole body freezes, not from fear this time, but from a pure, electric sensation that dances over my skin.

It’s a feeling of… sparks. Tiny, fizzy, sun-warm sparks that prickle and pop from the point of contact, traveling in a wave up my arm and straight into the hollow of my chest. It’s dull, muted, as if felt through a thick fog of trauma and denial, but it’s undeniably there.

“Do you feel that?” he asks, his voice a breathless, urgent plea. I don’t answer because I’m now more terrified and confused than before. I feel sparks. But how? How did I not notice it before? The only other time I felt this was a nightmare I refuse to relive, a ghost of a bond that brought nothing but unimaginable suffering.

The sensation is now a harbinger of pain, not a promise of joy.

“Tell me you can feel the bond, please?” His eyes are wide and pleading, the mask of the king utterly shattered, revealing a desperate hope that is almost painful to witness. The word ‘bond’ is a gong in my soul, a death knell. The last time I felt sparks for a destined mate, it was a mockery, a curse that led to my ruin. I can’t do it again. I won’t.

“I… I need the bathroom.”

The lie is flimsy, but it’s my only escape. I take my hand out of his warm, gentle ones, and the loss of the sparks leaves a cold, aching void in my palm.

He doesn’t try to stop me. His head drops, his chin falling to his chest, and his dark hair cascades forward, veiling his face like a shroud of defeat. The picture of a dejected King is so potent it nearly stops me, but survival’s call is louder.

I turn to the other side of the room, my body moving with a new, surprising ease. The doctor earlier, a kind-faced man, had shown me the bathroom when I first woke, so I can find my way. I straighten up, realizing the deep, bone-deep pain that had been my constant companion for months has dulled to a distant ache. His blood is working its healing magic.

I am nearly a few steps to the sanctuary of the bathroom door when a wall of solid warmth suddenly envelops me.

A body wraps itself around my back, and the deep, intoxicating smell of wild spices and cedar fills my senses, so potent it dizzies me. A strangled gasp escapes my lips. The King bends his great height, cradling his head into the crook of my neck, his breath a warm, intimate phantom on my skin. A bolt of sheer, primal panic shoots through me, and I immediately pull away, spinning out of his hold.

“What are you doing?!” I shout, and my own voice, so sharp and loud, surprises me even more than his actions.

It’s a voice I didn’t know I still had, a remnant of a girl who existed before she was broken. I turn to face him, my chest heaving.

He doesn’t move to chase me. He just stares, his expression unreadable for a moment before a slow, knowing smirk spreads across his handsome face. It’s not a cruel smirk, but the look of a man who has had a suspicion confirmed.

“You feel it too, Ivory,” he murmurs, my name rolling off his tongue like melted butter and honey, a delicious and dangerous caress. This can’t be happening.

This feeling, this bond, is only possible with a mate, and I already had one. The memory of that false bond, a forced spiritual shackle that gave another man the right to break my body and spirit, makes bile rise in my throat. This feels different, raw and pure, but my past screams that it’s a lie.

He begins to walk towards me, a slow, predatory grace in his steps. I mirror him, retreating step for step until my back hits the unyielding wood of the bathroom door.

There’s nowhere left to run.

He stops, placing both of his hands on the door on either side of my head, caging me in with the heat of his body. His towering presence blots out the rest of the world.

“You… your highness,” I mumble, my brief flare of courage utterly extinguished. I’m a trapped mouse again, the shadow of the hawk falling over me.

I see his chiseled face inching closer, his breath now a distinct warmth against my neck. My breath hitches in my throat, and an old, familiar resignation settles into my bones. I turn my head to the side, squeezing my eyes shut so tightly I see stars. This is it. This is the price. There is always a price.

His lips hover near my ear, his scent overwhelming me, and I feel the hum of the bond begging to be acknowledged, but I violently shove it down.

Steeling myself, I place a trembling hand against his chest, his heart a powerful drumbeat under my palm.

“If I was sent for your pleasure, sir, please… let me heal first,” I whisper, my eyes still closed, a sigh of utter surrender escaping me.

It’s better to give in than to fight it, a lesson I’ve learned through blood, screams, and the shattered pieces of my spirit. Fighting only ever makes it hurt worse. Maybe when he’s done with me, when he has taken whatever he wants, he’ll finally kill me, and all this, this constant suffering, will be over.

The thought is not a tragedy; it’s a calm, almost comforting hope.

My surrender is met with a sudden, shocking absence of his warmth. My thoughts are cut off by his lack of presence, the air cool on my skin where he once was.

Opening my eyes, I see he’s now standing several feet away from me, a safe distance. His massive form is no longer a cage but a shaking mess of barely controlled emotion, his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides.

The sight of his trembling rage causes my heart to beat faster, a wild, erratic drum of pure fear. Oh gods, my defiance, my condition, it has angered him more.

His voice, when he finally speaks, is a low, guttural growl that isn’t directed at me, but at the world itself.

“What have they done to you in that place?”

The raw, agonized fury in the question doesn’t feel like a threat to me. It feels like a promise of retribution, and it’s the most terrifying and confusing thing of all.