It’s Digby watching me now, just as he was then.
But it’s the window that really does me in. The dark glass may as well be a mirror for how well it reflects. And with my face turned toward it, there’s no hiding away from the sight of my exposed back.
It looks so empty. Devoid. When I see it like this, the true reality of my loss slams into me full-force in a way it hasn’t before. Because I wouldn’t let myself think of it. But now, I can’t ignore it. Because there it is, like scalloped edges jutting from my back that I can no longer cling to.
They’re gone.
I don’t have their comforting hug around my middle or their graceful twirls along the floor. I don’t have the satiny brushes against my skin or the steadying weight at my back. They’ve been taken away, hacked away like a length of hair, leaving me to ache with the loss. All that’s left are two rows of jagged, throbbing stubs that bleed and fray in the wake of what they once were.
And it’s right here, right in this moment, that the pent-up sob finally tears past my lips. My stopper is yanked out, and there are no denials, no I’m fines. There isn’t a cave in the world that’s deep enough for me to hide away from this.
Because I’ve passed the point of no return now, and it’s not just that there’s no going back—it’s that my back doesn’t even exist anymore.
Eruptive emotion pushes out of me, so loud I feel it must burst from the house and echo through the cave. As if it cries with me.
And everything, everything, comes spilling out. Like a broken bottle, its contents leaked past the cracks.
Truth be told, I don’t know if I’ll ever feel full again.
I sob and I grieve, and it’s not subtle or quiet, but a violent wracking of mourning that digs itself out of me and lands in a messy, hurtful heap. But all the while, Slade squeezes my hand and Digby stands watch.
I may be empty, but I am not alone.
And that, at least, is something.
CHAPTER 18
AUREN
When you hit rock bottom, you feel it.
You break down, walls crumbling until you’re free-falling. The feelings that you tried to run from suddenly rush up around you in an unstoppable force, the gravity of your thoughts now nothing but a punishing plunge.
When you slam into the bottom, that landing jolts you all the way to your very soul. You hit hard, and it cracks the very foundation of the world. The ground fragments beneath you, lines stretching far and wide.
And then you’re left, a pile of rubble.
But I realize something as I lie here, surrounded by the destruction of my plummet. These cracks that have spread out from my caustic landing, they’re not evidence of my ruination.
They’re paths.
Each jagged line leads from me and then diverts away, showing me all the different ways I could go from here.
I lie on the bed with Hojat’s hands tending to my hacked back, with tears streaking down my face, where even breathing hurts. But I’m also in my mind, staring at the fissures around me, seeing where each one leads. Because now that I’m forced to feel what I didn’t want to, I have a decision to make.
I can choose to stay stagnant here, at the bottom of the cliff, broken and unmoving. I can rage, I can wallow, I can blame, I can hide. I can let the severed parts of me sever all the rest.
Or I can get up, dust myself off, and look back up. I can find a path that ensures I’ll never fall again, ensures that I don’t lose any more parts of myself. All I have to do is turn and follow my feet, one step at a time.
So that’s what I’ll do.
I let myself cry until all my tears dry up. It’s not ragged or turbulent anymore. Instead, it’s quiet. Slow. The kind of tears your expression lets fall without fanfare. There is no choked breathing or scrunched up nose. No pulled lips or furrowed brow. This is the suffering of the silent. A hurt so deep it doesn’t show itself on a face. The tears fall down my wooden expression, leaking from slowly blinking eyes while I stare at my reflection through the window. While I grieve for twenty-four strands of me that have been plucked away like petals from a flower.
When Hojat finishes, he’s treated the wounds, my nose long since acclimated to the scent of the sharp herbs. I don’t know if he did something to help dull the pain or if I’ve simply gone numb, but I barely feel a thing now.
He’s also given me a new oversized shirt that he has me wear backwards, so all the buttons are down my spine, making it easier to tend to my wounds.
“Alright, Lady Auren,” he says quietly. “It’s all done now.”
It’s all done now, I tell myself. So I wipe away the last of my tears and take a deep breath.
“Thank you, Hojat.” My voice comes out as a mere rasp, but the mender hears, because he gives a gentle pat on my shoulder.
“I’ll need to check it each day for a while until the healing process speeds up.”
I nod, feeling wrung out, lethargy tugging at my bones.
“Sir Digby?” Hojat says. “How about I take a look at you next?”
When Digby doesn’t reply, I turn my head to face him. He’s still standing sentry in the doorway, and I don’t think his gaze has left me for even a second. I notice how heavily he’s leaning against the wall, how his arm is tucked in tight against his ribs and how one leg seems to be giving him trouble. He won’t go without prompting, just like he never once ducked out early on a shift to guard me.
I give him a nod. “Your turn, Dig.”
He hesitates for a moment before his eyes pass over me and land on Slade. I’m not sure what the two men communicate, but Digby glances back at me with a tilt of his head, and then he and Hojat walk out, closing the door behind them.
As soon as they’re gone, I start to sit up, and Slade is instantly there to help me. Despite how much I’ve been sleeping, my body feels exhausted again, but my mind is too wired to sleep.
I hold the borrowed shirt against my chest, the back still undone. “Can I clean up a little?”
“Of course.” Slade helps me to my feet and leads me to an attached washroom. It’s small but clean, with a round tub, a washbasin, toilet, and a wooden vanity.
“I could fill the bath for you, but we’d have to keep the water quite low so we don’t get your bandages wet.”
“No, that’s alright. I’ll just clean up as best I can for now and do that tomorrow before he wants to change the bandages.”
With a nod, Slade walks over to the vanity and pulls out a small stool. I take the hint and pad over to it, gingerly taking a seat. I watch as he moves around the room methodically, quietly, and I wonder what he’s thinking. But I’ve never been able to read his thoughts as well as he’s been able to read mine.
He grabs a glass vial from the vanity before going to the washbasin. The bowl set into it is a deep blue, the wood around it the same color as the floor. He pours some of the mixture into the bowl and then reaches up, pumping out water from a silver spigot on the wall. Water splashes into the basin, filling it with small bubbles, and he grabs a washing cloth from a hanging rack before dunking it in.
I watch as he wrings it out, his forearms visible from the rolled up sleeves of his shirt. The twisting movement of his hands fascinates me, especially in the low lantern light. From this angle, I’m able to study the profile of his face, and something in me aches just to look at him.
When he turns and walks over to me, I hold out my hand for the cloth, but he says, “May I?”
Taken aback, I hesitate. Washing someone, tending to them in this way, it’s intimate—intimate in a completely different way than sex. I clutch the shirt against my chest, my mind trying to come up with what I want, and he doesn’t rush me. He just waits, and I know that if I say no, he’ll pass me the cloth and that will be the end of it.