64. Danica

Danica

64

A s the solid door shuts behind us, the sound reverberates through the room, creating a barrier between us and the external bedlam. The rich aroma of sandalwood permeates the space, a signature note that underscoresRhyland's formidable aura. He strides toward the window, his silhouette framed against the twilight, shoulders set in a taut display of contained strength, while his gaze is drawn to the dusk outside.

My head is spinning with all the mind-blowing revelations from my Atherian crash course, but right now,Rhyland's well-being eclipses everything else. I can sense his inner turmoil through our bond, and it's gnawing at my very soul.

"Alina," my voice carries gently through the chamber to where she stands alert. "Would you be so kind as to prepare a bath forRhyland?"

Her response is a quiet nod, her slight form barely stirring the air. Observant and perceptive, her wide eyes dart from me toRhylandand back again, a silent witness to the unspoken tensions rippling between us. With a quick, almost fluttery motion, she vanishes to set the bath in motion, leaving me to focus fully onRhyland's brooding figure.

Rhyland, remaining at the window, carries the burden of his thoughts like a bulwark against an invisible tempest. I encircle him from the rear, my arms wrapping around his sturdy frame, and lay my cheek softly against the muscle of his back.

"Talk to me," I whisper gently, coaxing the words into the silence that hangs between us.

Rhyland's response echoes with a faraway quality, his voice seeming to traverse a chasm of unspoken truths. "There's nothing to tell,Angel."

He's shutting me out—I can discern the unsteady tremor beneath his words, sensing the trouble simmering beneath the surface.

I maneuver myself to stand before him, my hands reaching up with purpose to cradle his scruffy face—guiding his gaze down to meet mine. "Look at me,Rhyland," I say, seeking connection through the windows of his beautiful blues. Observing the muted turmoil, I recognize there's more than he's willing to admit.

My heart aches to imagine the tormentRhylandmust have suffered while I was gone, locked up and chained by those two monsters. Just thinking of the cruelty he endured during his last imprisonment by Amara is enough to ignite a firestorm of fury in me, making me want to watch that sadistic bitch burn.

And now the presence ofAdrian, his own brother by blood, shackled and imprisoned before him, must be tearingRhylandapart from the inside out. The bitter sting of betrayal, the agonizing realization that someone he trusted, someone he called family, has turned against him—it's a pain that cuts deeper than any physical wound ever could.

I can see the conflict raging behindRhyland's eyes, the tempest of emotions threatening to consume him whole. His mind must be a battlefield, a landscape of shattered abuse, trust, and fractured loyalties, as he grapples with the harsh reality of what has happened.

Rhylandremains frozen, clearly lost in the labyrinth of his own haunted thoughts. I know he's not only grappling with the fresh wounds of his recent captivity andAdrian's treachery but also the unrelenting anguish of not knowing if or when I would find my way back to him—an endless cyclone of turmoil and dread that must have ravaged his mind and soul.

Alina's presence is discreet, her voice barely more than a murmur from the doorway. "The bath is ready, My Lady."

Grateful for her service, I reply without turning, "Thank you, Alina." She retreats with a hushed grace that speaks of her understanding, leaving us again in our private sanctuary.

The steam from the bath fills the room, weaving through the air like ethereal wisps, setting a mystical stage. Alina's meticulous work is evident in the large, inviting tub, where the hot water sends ribbons of heat that curl into the cooler air of the chamber.

FacingRhyland, I gaze into his poignant ocean-blue eyes, noting the turbulence that dwells within. "Let's talk while you soak," I coax softly, suggesting both an invitation and solace.

His nod is quiet, a silent acknowledgment of the need for conversation, yet his lips remain sealed.Rhylandstands before me, a paragon of restraint, but I feel the subtle cracks threatening his composed exterior.

Perched on the tub's rim, I watch asRhylanddiscards his garments one by one with mechanical precision.

He's an absolute vision, a breathtaking spectacle that seems almost too perfect to be real.

Standing there, he's the living, breathing embodiment of a Norse deity—powerful, raw, and so damn captivating it hurts. He's covered in blood and dirt, but it only amplifies the rugged, primal sexiness that draws me to him like a moth to a flame. His very presence commands attention, demanding worship and reverence with every perfectly chiseled inch of his godlike form.

His chiseled abs are a masterpiece, each muscle expertly carved, forming an alluring V that points like an arrow to my favorite toy. The striking black ink of his tattoos spans his chest, arms, and neck, each intricate design hinting at untold chapters of his past. The bold lines stand out against his skin, a testament to his strength and the darkness he's conquered. His raven locks fall carelessly over the jagged scar on his brow, the rugged stubble along his jaw accentuating his handsome, chiseled features. The interplay of unruly hair, battle-worn scar, and masculine beard creates an irresistible tableau of raw virility and untamed allure. Seeing him steals my breath and sets my pulse racing, every cell in my body drawn to his overwhelming presence.

Finally bare, he immerses himself into the steaming water, emitting a sigh that seems to carry the weight of his woes, a sound tangled with both release and apprehension.

Snatching up a nearby cloth, I squirt a dollop of soap onto it and start the task of cleaning my Tattoo Titan. My hands, guided by intent and tenderness, begin their journey across the landscape of his chiseled chest, meandering to his brawny arms and the column of his neck.

I'm meticulous, leaving no inch of him untouched by the cleansing ritual, ensuring every bit of him is refreshed and cared for.

Extending a hand, I gently sweep back the damp strands of his hair, clearing his forehead. "Rhyland," I begin, voice barely above a whisper, eyeing him with concern and care, "I want to understand what happened... what they did to you."

His eyelids fall shut, a curtain drawn over those deep, expressive blues as if to shut out the world. Minutes pass before he gives a feeble shake of his head, murmuring, "It's not worth remembering."

Despite his dismissal, I can sense the fleeting play of darkness that flickers across his closed lids. It's clear to me that he's already transported back to the depths of that grim cell, reliving the memories he desperately strives to keep at bay.

"Please," I persist, unwilling to let him retreat inward to cut himself off from me. "Tell me."

He resists with a shake of his head, muscles in his jaw tightening with the effort to remain closed off. "You don't need those memories in your head," he argues, his voice laced with the pain of recollection.

"I'm not asking because I need them," I assert firmly. "I'm asking because you need to share them. Let it out,Rhyland. Let me help you, please." I'm well aware of the effect my pleading has on this man—there's a twist of shame for playing that card, but damn it, I need answers.

Relinquishing the fight,Rhylandlooks up, his stormy blue eyes locking onto mine. The fierce currents of agony blend indistinguishably with affection within their depths. He reaches out, resting his hand over mine, his touch conveying a plea for understanding. "Close your eyes, and let me in your mind," he directs with a voice that leaves no room for dispute.

Obedient to his request, my eyelids fall shut, forming a blank canvas for his revelations. The physical world fades, and abruptly, I gaze not merely intoRhyland's eyes but into the very essence of his haunted past.

The memory engulfs me—

Azrael towers overRhyland, his imposing silhouette seemingly devouring the faint light that dares to penetrate the cell. His eyes, twin pools of obsidian malevolence, bore intoRhyland's essence, threatening to consume his soul with their bottomless cruelty—poisonous promises of power drip from Azrael's tongue, temptingRhylandto submit and shatter before him.

Yet, despite the relentless onslaught,Rhylandremains unbroken. Though his body may be battered and broken, a single spark of hope stubbornly refuses to be extinguished—the unwavering thought of me.Rhylandholds fast to memories that blaze as bright as a bonfire—my infectious laughter, tender touch, and spirit's unwavering strength.

Azrael's shadowy tendrils slither intoRhyland's mind, probing for vulnerabilities to exploit. But each insidious wisp is repelled by the dazzling recollections of our connection.Rhyland's mind is a tempest of fury, but he anchors himself to those lifelines of radiance.

Enter Amara, a walking contradiction of glamour and malevolence. She parades her toxic charade, determined to shred the last vestiges of his dignity—her wandering hands are an unwelcome invasion, eager to see him grovel at her feet. She feeds on his blood like a junkie chasing a high. The grotesque display turns my stomach inside out with revulsion. I can almost taste the bitterness ofRhyland's disgust, as acrid as stale coffee.

Starved.

Whipped.

Assaulted.

He was brutally beaten, over and over—tortured relentlessly by Amara's goons. It's as if the horrors are stuck on an endless loop, day in and day out, while I am off in another realm. And through it all, he clung to hope, never letting go.

Rhylandweathered each sadistic moment because he knew that if he shattered, it was not just his own soul on the line—it was the promise of the future we could build together. That fragile hope is the singular thread preventing him from surrendering to oblivion's seductive embrace. He endured the unimaginable torment for me, for us.

Rhylandwithdraws from my mind, and I lock eyes with him. He catches the tears I'm fighting to keep from spilling over.

I'll earmark how he just shared a memory with me through my mind for another time.

His voice drops to a harsh whisper, all torn up with emotion. "I never fucking lost hope," he rasps out. "I knew you'd come back—to me."

My heart clenches at the raw edge in his voice. His turmoil unfolds before me—a tapestry woven with threads of pain and defiance—and I feel it all as if it were my own.

Tears spill over my cheeks for him—for all he endured alone in that cold darkness for weeks.

My words tumble out, choked by my own crying: "I'm so…s-sorry," each syllable heavy with regret. "You shouldn't have had to go through that... because of me."

Rhylandsits up, the water sloshing over onto the floor at the sudden movement. His hand's slick and wet brings it up to cradle my cheek. "No," he says—voice solid as a rock. "Don't you go hauling that burden; none of this shitstorm is on you."

Despite my best efforts, my tears have a mind of their own—each one a reluctant salute to the battles he fought and the scars I couldn't shield him from.

The room is thick with his grief and the curl of steam, our collective woes crafting an atmosphere that's almost got a personality of its own, heavy enough to lean on.

"Angel, stop."Rhylandyanks me right into the tub with him; more water spills out the sides. I land smack on top of that hard, tattooed chest of his. He gets a firm hold on my hair at the nape, making damn sure I'm staring straight into those deep blue seas of his. "This ain't your load to bear—Gods, I knew I should've kept that shit to myself," he exhales long and hard, his eyes losing that fierce edge, going all gentle like a calm after the storm.

Tears are winning the battle, turning me into a sob-fest extraordinaire, every bit of his past torment echoing through me. "No—don't ever keep things from me,Rhyland." the pain starts again, and tears have a mind of their own, "I-just. I hurt…it hurts….so much for what happened to you."

It's the damn bond; I'm feeling every high and low of his, and he's riding the waves of mine—A bond that, as it turns out, is solely the product of his magic and blood—a crucial detail I need to hash out with him—the whole Soul-Tie situation.Rhyland's eyes search mine, and he's holding me tight against him, fingers of one hand buried in my hair, the other hand firm on my chin, and then—his lips crash against mine. It's like he's out to consume all the air I have. His kiss is a fierce mix of agony, love, loyalty, and recognition.

"Then I'll just have to make you stop," he vows, breaking just long enough to steal my breath and give it back in the space between us.

"Y-yes, plea—" My words are abruptly snatched away, severed before they can fully form asRhyland's growl rumbles through his chest as he rises, clutching me to him like I'm the last solid thing in a spinning world, striding into the bedroom. My clothes are nothing but tatters in seconds, shredded by hands that can't bear a second more of separation. His kisses are fervent, charged with a hunger born from too damn long a wait. I'm there matching his urgency, giving as good as I get because hell, I'm done waiting, too.