Page 47 of The Trials of Ophelia

There was no sound through the door. A rush of relief went through me.

“Mila?” I huffed again, louder this time. My breath fogged in front of me. My fucking balls were gonna freeze off if I kept waiting out here. Mystiques weren’t made for this weather. At least inside our tents we had the warmth of mystlight.

“Mila, if you’re in there, answer so I can fucking apologize, or else I’m going to come inside.”

The door swung open, but it wasn’t Mila.

“Lyria.”

“Malakai.” The commander leaned against the frame. “To what do we owe your aggrieved presence?”

So Mila hadn’t told her. Maybe she wasn’t angry with me, then. Or maybe she truly didn’t care that I’d been an ass.

“Is Mila here?”

Lyria stepped aside. “Up the stairs, second door on the right.”

“Thanks.” Clenching my hands beneath my cloak, I swept past the war room and kitchen and up the rickety staircase against the wall, wood groaning beneath my feet.

Mila’s door was cracked. I rapped my knuckles on the wood and waited, but she didn’t say a thing.

“Mila?” Spirits, she had to be able to hear me. The walls were thin for Damien’s sake.

I’d never been patient, though. “Mila?” I knocked again, harder this time, and the door swung open a few inches, hinges squeaking.

Peering through, I caught what I thought were maps pinned to the walls and an assortment of weapons lining the dresser.

But I barely saw any of it because across the room, water drops glistening on her golden-tan skin after bathing, was Mila. Her back was to me, and she wore nothing more than white lace undergarments and?—

Those fucking scars.

I’d seen them on Daminius, crisscrossing her legs and carving out a place in my mind. They froze me now. My vision went red, pale jagged marks all that filtered through.

And because of all the frustration already vying to get out of me, the question I’d been dying to ask but had told myself was prying broke free without a thought: “Who did that to you?”

Spirits, I sounded like a fucking animal.

She whirled, eyes wide, but there wasn’t a hint of embarrassment at me seeing her. Not even anger. Only a brief flash of alarm and then that infuriating but admirably calm demeanor she commanded, like everything else was locked away. She was a damn fortress.

Mila crossed her arms, tucking her hands around herself. All I saw was white lace, golden skin, and those scars calling for payment.

“What are you doing here?” At her voice, my head snapped up. She didn’t sound mad—merely curious. Like this happened every day. And?—

Shit.

I’d walked in on her nearly naked. I averted my eyes, but her scars were everywhere. Plastered on the damn ceiling and wooden beams spanning it.

“I—I called and you didn’t answer. The door swung open on its own?—”

“You should probably wait outside.”

“You’re right, sorry.” I ducked out before she could say anything else, my back flattening against the wall on the other side of the door.

My breathing came quicker as I waited, short gasps through tight lungs.

When I closed my eyes, I saw Mila’s scars, but I also saw my own. A warped history and the casualties committed through it. Had hers damaged her mind the way mine had? Maybe they had. I couldn’t know.

I did know one thing: scars equaled pain and torture and betrayals. And seeing them—especially ones so horrible—on anyone put me right back into that haunted place where I existed to be beaten. Where I was a tool for their entertainment. Where I learned not to feel the physical pain but every damn second was seared into my mind.

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