Page 58 of The Scars Within
I didn’t think receiving the response I’d always wanted would strike as deep as it did. All I’ve ever been given is sympathy, a soft word, or a sad look. But nobody ever shared my anger. No one has ever looked at me and automatically accepted my pain as their own. Instead of seeing Thorne for the villain he is, all they cared to see was a sad victim.
I didn’t feel the need to reply with words. Instead, I leaned back against him. Hoping that my action was a response written in itself.
He answered my quiet response by resting his chin on my head. I couldn’t help but grin at the silly action. His chin resting on my head made me feel so small compared to him, but I liked it. My shoulders were flat against his firm chest. His thighs were curved around mine. I closed my eyes and grinned. Feeling his response of just letting me know that his presence was there and that I wasn’t alone.
That someone finally heard what I had to say.
We remained like that for a while as a silent comfort to each other. Until twinkling lights ahead came into view, revealing a small village bathed in the warm glow of night.
Dahlia led us into a cozy village nestled on cobblestone streets. A stone fountain stood in the center, surrounded by a small courtyard where I imagine the townsfolk likely gather during the day. The buildings were tightly packed around the square, their stone facades bearing the marks of time, with ivy creeping up the walls and small, shuttered windows that glowed warmly in the night.
A gentle light was cast across the cobblestones from lanterns hanging around the village. Despite its smaller size, the aura of this place makes me believe that everybody knows each other’s name here.
We rode past a few buildings and then turned down a softly lit alley, the warm glow guiding our way until we reached a medium-sized building with villagers seated out front. The chatter and laughter of the townspeople hanging around filled the air.
Rhodes guided Dahlia to a hitching post on the side and smoothly dismounted. After tying her reins securely, he returned to me, placing one hand on the pommel and the other on my left hip. “Throw your leg over toward me,” he instructed.
I did as he asked and, without thinking, slid down the side of the saddle into his arms as if it were second nature. He caught me as I fell, with both of his hands now on my ribs. I didn’t realize it, but somehow, my hands had wrapped around his biceps. Feet on the ground, I looked up into his eyes.
Straight into a beacon’s signaling light.
I melted into his gray-blue gaze. He cleared his throat, breaking the moment. I let go of his arms, and he stepped away. We made our way into the tavern as Rhodes shook hands with a few of the civilians seated outside.
I was entranced by the warm and welcoming charm of the rustic tavern. Lanterns, like those we saw outside, were also hanging from dark wooden beams that crisscrossed across the ceiling. Their flickering light added to the cozy feel of the space. The tavern was constructed of rough stone walls, and most of the wall space was covered with old tapestries or intricately carved signs, making the overall place feel like an homage to these villagers.
A long wooden bar separates the space. Behind the bar sits shelves aligned with an assortment of bottles and a door that likely leads to an office. Or a kitchen, if the smell of roasting meat and freshly baked bread mingling in the air is any indication. In the open part of the tavern, tables and chairs are scattered throughout, where villagers are engaged in lively conversation and laughter. Some are playing card games as they playfully squabble with their friends. A large stone fireplace with a raging fire sits on the right, while a musician strums a gentle tune on a lute on a small stage on the left.
This is… so cozy.
The tavern was bustling with people, a scene I might typically shy away from, but I found myself wanting to be a part of its atmosphere. While the rooftop is a sanctuary of peace and tranquility, this lively space offers a different kind of comfort—a place where people come together with their loved ones. To create memories and share in each other’s joy.
I followed Rhodes through the maze of tables mindlessly. He pulled out an old wooden barstool for me, then leaned casually against the bar, his elbows resting on the worn surface. I couldn’t help but notice how at ease he seemed like this was his second home. The way the civilians outside lit up when they saw him and how naturally he moved throughthe space tells me this is a part of Rhodes that not many have the privilege to see.
Then I saw his face light up with a full smile, making my heart squeeze. I followed his gaze and spotted an older man approaching us, drying a glass with a kitchen rag. He was tall—possibly as tall as Rhodes—with a broad, sturdy build. The light from the tavern flickered off his bald head, and his five o’clock shadow had grown into something closer to a seven o’clock. When he returned Rhodes’s smile, it was clear he was missing a few teeth, but the warmth in his grin more than made up for it.
The man glanced at me briefly before turning back to Rhodes. “And who’s this pretty thing?” he asked with a teasing grin.
Rhodes looked down at me over his shoulder and then at the man. “Her name is Scarlet. And don’t scare her away, Walt,” he said, his tone firm as he raised his brows and dipped his chin in a warning.
Walt looked at me and set the glass down on the counter. “My apologies, miss. I mean no harm,” he said, his homely, deep accent adding sincerity to his words. “I just like to tease this one here,” he added with a playful nudge of his eyebrows in Rhodes’s direction.
“None taken,” I replied with a grin.
Walt smiled and asked, “Now, what can I get you two to drink?”
“Uuuumm,” I drawled, considering my options.
Rhodes shifted, leaning his opposite elbow on the bar now, his hands clasped in front of him as he rested on one hip. “My friend Walter here has a sweet red if you’re into wine. Or, he’s got just about any ale you’ve seen across the continent. But if you’re in the mood for something different, he can whip up whatever you’d like. Have you ever tried an iced sweet tea?”
I hadn’t, but the idea of it sounded delightful, so I made a mental note to try it another time. Instead of spending my adult years exploring new drinks, I was shackled in unyielding chains. Even after I escaped the shed, my recovery took nearly a year. Since my trauma prevented me from speaking for months, I was taken to a local shelter for women andchildren, where they did their best to care for me. I didn’t know that our cottage had burned down at the time. But somehow, my father’s elemental documentation was sent to the shelter by an anonymous sender.
It took months before I could finally sleep through the night without being haunted by nightmares and even longer before I could make it through a day without succumbing to a panic attack.
So, I wouldn’t say I’ve truly lived my young adult years yet.
“Can you make something with lemonade? And, um, liquor?” I asked, my voice tinged with shyness as I fumbled through ordering an adult beverage.
“Coming right up!” Walter snapped his fingers, flashing me a quick grin before turning to the shelves, expertly grabbing bottles as he began to mix my drink.
