Marked

Chapter 14

RYN POV

The supplies were warm against my chest as I carried them down the narrow stairwell, firelight from the upper room trailing behind me like the last whisper of normalcy.

The air down here still smelled like blood. And burnt flesh. But when I stepped into the cell, he was still conscious. Barely.

His eyes cracked open as I approached, the silver in them dulled with exhaustion, pain, and too many unsaid things.

I knelt beside the cot and set the bowl of water and clean cloths on the floor. Then I pulled the pheasant from the wrapped cloth and handed it to him, followed by the waterskin.

“You need to eat,” I said softly.

He didn’t answer—just took the food with shaking fingers and started chewing, slow and methodical, like he wasn’t sure if his body would hold it down. But he ate. And that was something.

I soaked a cloth and wrung it out, then moved closer to his side. His arm was healing well—my magic had taken care of most of that—but the thigh wound was still angry and raw. Blood had dried in streaks along his skin. The new bleeding had slowed, but not stopped.

I dipped the cloth again and gently pressed it to the edge of the wound. He hissed sharply, his whole body tensing. I froze.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I’ll go slow.”

He said nothing. Just kept eating. But his eyes… They never left me.

I kept my gaze trained on the wound, trying to be careful, trying to ignore the way his presence seemed to fill the whole room even when he was barely able to sit upright.

“I’m sorry,” I said again, quieter this time. “For what she did. That’s not how I wanted this to go.”

Still silence. Still watching.

“I’m not a fan of torture. Especially not as a first resort. I thought… I thought I could get answers a different way. That you might be willing to talk.”

I rinsed the cloth and wrung it out again, the blood washing away into the water like ink into paper. He shifted slightly on the cot, and I saw the way his shoulders rose with effort. Still eating. Still watching.

“I don’t know why,” I continued, voice soft, “but I… I feel protective of you. And I don’t understand it. I should hate you. You’ve probably killed people I would’ve died to protect.”

I swallowed hard and leaned closer, gently wiping along the wound again. The skin around it twitched, and he winced—but didn’t pull away.

“I should hate you,” I said again.

“But I don’t.”

I didn’t look up. I couldn’t. Because I didn’t know what I’d find if I did. But I could feel the weight of his stare—still on me. Like he was studying something delicate. Or dangerous. Or both.

-------------------

RIV POV

I didn’t taste the food. But I ate it anyway. Because she had brought it.

She knelt beside me without flinching, her movements smooth and careful. The bowl of water steamed faintly between us. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her hands were stained red.

And yet she moved like this—this was the most important task in the world. Cleaning the blood. Rinsing the cloth. Pressing it carefully to the ruined mess that was my thigh. Pain still shot up my leg with every touch, but her hands were steady.

Every wince from me made her hesitate. Not because she was afraid—but because she cared. I didn’t understand it. Any of it. She could’ve let me rot.

She could’ve stood aside and let the other female finish what she started.

But instead… She sat here on the floor with a bowl of bloody water and a soft apology she whispered like a secret.

Her eyes were locked on the wound. Mine were locked on her. And all I could think was—

How does someone go through everything she’s been through… and still have a heart like that?

When she spoke again, her voice was softer.

“I don’t know why,” she said, “but I… I feel protective of you.”

My breath caught. She kept talking, but those words echoed louder than anything else in the room.

Protective.

Of me.

She said she should hate me. Said she didn’t understand it. Said she didn’t.

And that? That stunned me more than the torture had. Because I’d been hated. Feared. Hunted. Used. But not seen. Not in a long, long time.

And now she was sitting beside me, whispering apologies I didn’t deserve, fighting for me in ways no one ever had. And I realized—I was protective of her too.

Had been since I saw her in the clearing. Since I watched her heal her friend and walk with purpose through a kingdom that wanted her dead.

I didn’t know why. Didn’t know what it meant.

But it was there. Buried under the blood and ash and pain.

I took another bite of the pheasant, though I barely tasted it now. My hand trembled slightly as I set it aside on the cloth and reached for the waterskin.

The coolness of the drink soothed my throat, but not the knot tightening inside it.

Her fingers brushed against the edge of the wound again, gentle as they could be—but it still stung. I winced. Breathed through it. And found myself watching her again.

The set of her jaw. The furrow between her brows as she focused. The way she treated my broken body like it was something worth saving.

I didn’t mean to speak. Didn’t plan it.

But the words came anyway—quiet and low, almost lost beneath the sound of the fire upstairs and the ripple of water in the bowl.

“I lost my mother too.”

She froze. Her fingers stilled over my thigh, cloth damp and red in her hand. I kept my eyes on the ceiling. It was easier than looking at her when I said it.

“I was four.”

I swallowed hard.

“The king killed her.”

There was a pause—sharp, sudden. Then her breath caught, and I finally looked at her. Her green eyes met mine, wide with disbelief.

“You serve him,” she said, her voice low but laced with something fierce. “How can you serve a monster who killed your mother?”

I didn’t flinch. Didn’t defend myself. Just stared past her shoulder for a long moment, letting the words settle like stones between us. Then I exhaled. Soft. Broken.

“I don’t have a choice.”

I didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain the mark. The compulsion. The curse that made obedience feel like oxygen. Because what difference would it make?

There was no way out.

I turned my head away, letting the quiet stretch between us, heavy and full of everything I couldn’t say. Let her decide what to do with it. What to think of me now.

Because somehow, even with pain still radiating through my body…

This hurt worse.

-----------------------------------

RYN POV

“I don’t have a choice.”

That was all he said. No elaboration. No anger.

Just those five words—low and resigned, like they’d been spoken a hundred times in his own head before they ever reached his lips.

I didn’t push. I could see it in his eyes—the way his gaze shifted just slightly away from mine. The weight of memory settling behind those deep blue eyes like a storm barely kept at bay.

Sad. Broken.

And—gods help me—beautiful. I looked away to give him space and reached for the salve.

The herbs I’d steeped earlier were ready, soft and fragrant with healing magic. I scooped a dollop into a small bowl and stirred it slowly with the back of a spoon, grinding the mixture into a thick paste.

The silence stretched. Not cold or tense. Just quiet. Still, I didn’t want to lose him to it. Not again. So I asked something simple. Something safe.

“How old are you?”

He didn’t answer right away. But after a pause, he murmured, “One hundred twenty-nine.”

I blinked. That was older than I expected. Still young by Fae standards—but more than five times my age.

“And your family? Do you have any… anyone else?”

His jaw tensed. His grip on the waterskin tightened.

“No.”

Just that. No. The shield was sliding back into place. I didn’t fight it. Didn’t press further. Instead, I set the bowl of salve down and dipped my fingers into it, the cool mixture coating my skin with its earthy scent.

“This will burn at first,” I said gently. “Sorry in advance.”

His expression didn’t change. But I could see the tension in his jaw—the preparation for pain. I hesitated. Then spoke again.

“When I was a little girl,” I said softly, “before everything went wrong… my parents used to take me riding through the forest near our home.”

He didn’t respond. But his eyes flicked toward mine again, just slightly. Encouragement enough.

“I’ve always loved horses. They make everything feel slower, quieter. You feel the wind differently when you’re on their back. Like you're part of the forest, not just passing through it.”

I began applying the salve to the wound, as gently as I could. He flinched—barely—but didn’t pull away. I kept talking.

“I used to pretend I was a scout. Or a warrior. Or a queen.”

I smiled faintly.

“I always told myself I’d ride through those trees again someday. Wild and free. Like nothing bad had ever happened.”

I didn’t look at him right away. I couldn’t. But when I finally did…

He wasn’t grimacing from the pain. He was just watching me. Like he didn’t understand why I’d told him any of it. Like he didn’t realize that maybe— I didn’t either.