4
1151 Words
The tiles were cold against my bare skin.
I lay there trembling, my body bruised and broken after another night in Raymond’s chambers.
The king. The monster. My uncle.
He had left me not long ago, his scent lingering in the air—sour wine, musk, and blood. I could still feel the weight of him pressed into my bones, his laughter echoing in my skull. Every part of me ached. Inside and out. My wolf didn’t even whimper anymore—she had retreated deep within, curled away from the world, as if ashamed to share my body.
I clutched my arms around myself, trying to cover what little dignity I had left, though there was no one here but me. My tears had dried, leaving my face tight, raw. I hated myself for them. I told myself I wouldn’t cry again. But every time he touched me… every time he took what he wanted… I broke all over again.
The heavy door opened with a hiss of hydraulics.
Two maids slipped inside. They never looked me in the eye. Raymond had forbidden it. To acknowledge me as human was to risk punishment. Their movements were silent, efficient—they carried white towels, a bowl of steaming water, and a pale robe folded neatly across one arm.
“Up,” one whispered, her voice flat but softer than his ever was.
My muscles refused to move. My body was too weak, too raw. Shame burned in me as they bent to lift me, their arms steady as they half-carried, half-dragged me to the cushioned bench by the wall. The tiles gleamed under the fluorescent lights—so clean, so sterile—mocking the filth I felt inside my own skin.
They wiped me down, their hands brisk but not cruel. They cleaned the blood from between my thighs, the sweat from my neck, the bruises that marked me in shades of violet and black. When they draped the robe around me, it swallowed me whole, the fabric heavy against my fragile frame.
I didn’t thank them. What good were manners in hell?
They left without a word. And then he came.
Troy.
My cousin. My blood.
He slipped inside quietly, closing the door behind him as if afraid the sound might rouse Raymond from the shadows. He carried a tray—porridge, bread, a steaming mug. My stomach twisted violently at the smell, half in hunger, half in nausea.
He set it down beside me, his hands shaking just slightly. His eyes flicked across my body, catching on the bruises scattered like constellations across my skin. He looked away quickly, his jaw clenched, shame burning on his face.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
My laugh was bitter and cracked. “Your apology doesn’t undo what your father does.”
He flinched. “Do you think I don’t know? Do you think I don’t see the monster he is?” His voice trembled, low and desperate. “I live in fear of him too, Lena. Every second, every breath—I’m waiting for the moment I disappoint him. And then it will be me lying broken on these tiles.”
His eyes met mine then. For the first time, I saw it—real fear, raw and unmasked. Not the cowardice of someone complicit, but the terror of someone trapped.
“And yet,” I said coldly, “you still bring me food, like scraps tossed to a dog.”
“No,” he said sharply, then lowered his voice, glancing at the door. “No. I bring you food because I have nothing else to give you. Except—”
He hesitated, then slid a hand into his jacket. When he pulled it free, there was a small glass vial nestled in his palm. Clear liquid sloshed inside, faintly tinted with green.
My breath caught.
“It will help you sleep,” Troy whispered, his voice trembling. “It will numb you. Just for a little while. It won’t set you free… but it will give you rest.”
I stared at it, unable to breathe. “If he finds out—”
“Then he’ll kill me,” Troy said, cutting me off. His lips trembled, but there was steel buried deep in his voice. “Better me than you.”
The words gutted me.
For so long, I thought I was utterly alone in this prison of glass and steel. For so long, I thought no one cared, no one dared. Yet here was Troy—afraid, fragile, but still reaching out through the dark.
“Why?” I asked, my voice cracking.
He swallowed hard. “Because you’re my cousin. Because you’re all I have left of the family that wasn’t devoured by him. And because… I can’t stand by anymore.”
My throat ached with unshed tears. I turned my face away. “Leave it. Go before someone sees.”
He lingered a moment longer, then set the vial gently on the tray. “Eat something. Then rest. Please, Lena.”
And then he was gone.
I stared at the vial until my vision blurred. My hands shook as I picked it up, the cool glass pressing against my bruised fingers. My body screamed for escape, for silence, for even one hour without the memory of his touch clawing at me.
I uncorked it, poured the contents into the mug, and drank.
The taste was bitter, metallic, sharp against my tongue. But warmth bloomed quickly in my chest, heavy and soothing. My heartbeat slowed. My thoughts dulled. The white noise of my mind softened into silence.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, I slept.
****
I woke to fire.
Not the kind that haunted my dreams, but real flames—the glow of orange and red dancing across the sleek glass walls of the chamber. The air was hot, choked with smoke that stung my throat.
Somewhere outside, alarms screamed.
Boots thundered in the hall. Metal clashed against metal. Shouts rang out, fierce and panicked, filling the sterile corridors with the chaos of war.
I staggered to my feet, disoriented. The sedative still dragged at my limbs, but adrenaline cut through it, sharp and merciless.
I stumbled to the window.
The night sky burned. Flames licked up the sides of the fortress-like towers, glass shattering as smoke poured upward. The courtyard below was chaos—soldiers running, wolves shifting mid-stride, shadows clashing in blood and fire. The acrid smell of burning steel and flesh rose to meet me.
For a heartbeat, I thought it was another dream.
But then, deep inside me, my wolf stirred.
Not in fear. Not in retreat.
She growled.
And with that sound—low, feral, alive—something broke free inside me.
The cage was burning.
And for the first time in years, I let myself believe it.
Hope.
- Writer
