Page 58 of What Whispers in the Dark
Where an abyss of black often sat, now silver stared back, and he deepened a breath. But that pain, that shame, still lingered there. Enough that his splinted, broken hand attempted to bunch his shredded tunic fabric across his abdomen. To cover his scars—the ones displayed by Ezander’s sword on that mountainside.
Alora carefully draped her hand over his, stopping him. As far as she was concerned, he was just as beautiful with the cracks showing. “You don’t have to hide and be so strong all the time, mighty prince. You’re allowed to break.”
She might as well have said he could breathe underwater by the look on his face.
Before he could argue, Alora moved her hand back to his ankle, and went on, “I will be here to help you mend the pieces after. And until you gather your strength…” She began runningthe pads of her fingers into the arch of his foot, feeling the burn scars through the fabric. “Is this okay?”
Garrik’s groan was answer enough, but he still managed, “Yes.” He didn’t utter another word as she massaged him. Didn’t attempt to cover himself anymore. With every gentle stroke, Garrik relaxed, his head pressing deeper into the pillow, his color returning to his face. She almost thought he fell asleep when his breathy voice murmured, “I am not accustomed to this.”
“Foot rubs?” Her smile widened as she settled her attention on his shackle-scarred ankle, causing another groan when she pulsed warmth there.
“Being touched like this. So … gently.” His throat bobbed with a harsh swallow. Struggling to keep his mind alert, he slurred, “Not being afraid of the monster I am. Of my darkness.” The flutter of his eyelids was enough of a warning, but the way his head tilted on the pillow was a good indication that he was almost lost.
Alora hummed, swirling her thumbs in his arches. “Monster? I think you’rekind ofcute.”
He huffed a sleep-heavy laugh.
And she couldn’t help but wonder … why did it sound so mending—so vital? As if that very sound were the rhythm of her heartbeat. A call to flutter and leap.
“Cute,” he repeated. His mouth barely, barely tugged up in the corners. “Undoubtedly, I have erred in exemplifying my terrible nature on that cliff. Something I intend to remedy.” He lightly growled in warning, a spark of life returning, inspiring visions of Ezander’s head on a pike. Something gleamed in his half-lidded eyes, though. Something soft and tender-hearted. A glimpse of the male she knew in the silence of empty tents and bedchambers, in the peaceful calm of midnight annuluses. That smile grew then, his eyes sealed, and he lightly scoffed, “Cute.”
Something wicked and clever twisted her mouth into a roguish smirk, a flawless mirror of the one he so often displayed. Alora dug her fingers into the heel of his foot and waited for his pleasured groan to shrug and say, “You’re right.” Eyes still closed, Garrik’s brow lifted. “I should have saidadorable.”
A heartbeat later?—
Nothing but those primal eyes … nothing but the way his voice lowered …
“Do not tempt me to prove you incorrect, clever girl”—a rush swept through the corrupt parts of her, daring to wish he would, especially to those in this horrid kingdom—“I have killed for much less.” If anyone else, she knew he would thrill in doing just that, but this threat … to her … the emptiness in it …
She held her predator’s stare—the stare of Elysian nightmares, submitting to the tender stroke of her hand. “You don’t scare me.” A taunt. A reminder. Baiting him with the simple truth, followed by a firm squeeze along his calf muscle.
Apparently, it was enough to unsteel him. Half a thought and the last of his reserves faded. “So it would seem,” he murmured with a hint of bothered amusement.
If he wasn’t so thoroughly exhausted … “Surrendering so soon?Why, mighty prince, how unlike you.”
Garrik feigned defeat. His eyes closed, speaking to the air between them, “I recognize when unarmed in battle.” He yawned, featuring just howunarmedhe was. His head tilted deeper into the pillow, and she fought the urge to reach up and brush her fingers through his disheveled hair. “How am I to fight such nonsense when your powers of bewitching … wielding words of … your weapons on my feet…”
Alora giggled as his words trailed away. “Now who’s speaking nonsense?” When his face laxed and he said nothing, she pulled a fleece blanket from over the couch and draped it to his waist.
Gone soon—she guessed. Maybe seconds now.
But Garrik still managed a soft hum. “Stop … my mouth. I know not what I am saying.”
Indeed.
Alora didn’t stop herself this time. The silken strands of his hair weaved through her fingers. Garrik leaned into that touch as she faintly coaxed, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”
The sound of his long breath was enough to suppose he had drifted off.
It wasn’t long before his body fell entirely limp—the very thing she’d hoped for. And as her High Prince drifted into the sleep he sodesperatelyneeded, she couldn’t help but notice the way the corner of his mouth turned up slightly. How his ear appeared as if it had once held piercings for jewelry. The way his hair naturally parted and gathered across his forehead. The way his eyelashes rested against his cheek.
How his injured hands flattened across his abdomen and wrinkled his tunic fabric, settled atop the scars displayed underneath.
A tear slid down her cheek before she recognized its warmth.
Not for pity—Garrik wouldn’t want that.
No. This was rage—unquenchable, rotten, hateful rage.
