Page 14 of Bought By the Revenant
As I prepare dried chamomile for tea and hang bundles from the kitchen rafters, I catch myself smiling at the thought of sharing it with him later. Something has shifted between us so gradually I hardly noticed it happening. How long has it beensince I became his bride? Three weeks? Not even a month, and I have to admit this new life with him isn’t bad at all. He asks nothing of me. Sometimes I feel guilty, because he offers me so much, and I feel like I have nothing to give him in return. Or maybe I do…
I close my eyes and shake my head. Do I even dare think about it? I am his bride, after all. He is my husband. Knowing him, he will never ask.
Do I want him to ask?
Chapter Eight
Riven
I stand in my workshop as morning light comes through the high windows and casts long shadows on the tables and cabinets around me. I run my fingers along the spine of an old journal, noticing how rough the leather feels after years of use. I haven’t made a new revenant in years, and now I mostly do consultation and research, but I still come to this room often, because this place of science and magic has shaped everything that I am.
The workshop stays clean and organized with every instrument where it belongs. Glass jars sit in rows on the shelves, some containing preserved specimens that have proven useful in my studies of organic material compatibility. Old books about soul transference sit stacked on the reading desk, their pages marked with notes from thousands of experiments. The surgical table sits in the center of the room, and shines because Tomas scrubs it clean every week, even though I don’t use it for practical work anymore.
Amity has never been in here because I make damn sure to keep her away. When she explores the mansion, I guide her to the gardens, or the kitchen, or the library, because those are places full of life and comfort, not this room that holds too many memories of death and unnatural rebirth. Our talks have become easier and more natural over these past days, but I still keep this one barrier between us.
A scream coming from the garden cuts through the silence and pulls me from my thoughts.
I rush out of the room, run through the corridors and out the back door, and my feet, mismatched as they are, carry me faster than most people can move. The sound came from the eastern section of the garden, where Amity has been working to clear the overgrown flower beds. I find her there, on her knees in the dirt,and she’s holding her arm tight while blood leaks out between her fingers and drips bright red against her pale skin.
“What happened?” I kneel beside her.
“The old metal fence,” she says through gritted teeth. “It collapsed while I was pulling the vines away.”
She lifts her hand to show me the damage, and I see a deep cut that starts at her wrist and goes halfway up to her elbow. Blood flows out of the wound and soaks into the ground. I need to think and act quickly. Her bedroom is on the far side of the mansion, while my workshop is close and has everything I need to fix her. I hesitate because I don’t want her to see that room, but then I groan in defeat and admit that her safety matters more than my secrets.
“Riven,” Amity sounds panicked. “I need help!”
I shake my head, then nod. Damn it. I have no choice.
“I need to stitch this immediately. Can you walk?”
She tries to stand up, but her body sways and she almost falls over. I reach out a hand to steady her, half expecting her to jump at my touch. She doesn’t. In fact, she leans into it, and I lift her up into my arms, holding her body against my chest while being careful not to hurt her more. Her good arm goes around my neck for support, and she presses her face against my shoulder. I can barely breathe. I will my feet to move, and I carry her inside the house, grateful that my body moves on its own. My mind is gone. I have her in my arms – my beautiful, perfect bride – and she doesn’t flinch away from me, doesn’t turn her head in disgust. She holds onto me, and when I steal a glance at her face, I see that her brows are furrowed from pain, but not from terror.
“I’m taking you to my workshop,” I tell her. “It’s closest.”
She nods imperceptibly.
When we reach the heavy oak door, I stop for a second.
“Amity, what’s inside... it might disturb you.”
“Less disturbing than bleeding to death,” she says. “Just hurry.”
I push the door open with my shoulder and carry her into the room. Her body goes rigid as she looks around. She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her demeanor changing. I set her down on the worktable and move to gather what I need: clean cloths for the blood, antiseptic solution to prevent infection, and a needle with thread to close the wound.
“This will sting,” I warn her before I pour the antiseptic over her wound.
She sucks in air through her teeth, but keeps her arm still for me, all the while her eyes roaming over the shelves and cabinets. I work the way I always have, cleaning the wound before I prepare to stitch it closed. My hands stay steady, but my mind is racing. What is she thinking?
“I need to stitch this closed,” I say while threading the curved needle. “It will hurt.”
“I trust you,” she replies.
My stomach roils, and I think I’m going to be sick. I look at her sitting on my worktable, her small form completely out of place in this dreadful room, and I can’t believe she just said those three words. She trusts me. Despite what I am, despite what I do… She senses me looking and glances up, and our eyes lock for a moment. Her pupils are wide, her dark hair is disheveled and sticking to her neck and face, but she isn’t terrified. Not that she should be, because I’d do nothing to harm her, but people don’t think like that when they’re in my presence.
“Riven?” She gives me a smile.
I want to smile back at her, but my brows furrow instead. I feel like I’m going to cry again. How utterly pathetic.
