Page 85 of A Bond so Fierce and Fragile

He stared at the small bundle on the bed that was his mate—at the brown quilt that moved with her chest as she breathed.

She wasn’t sleeping. Not yet. But Merrick hoped the breaths that seemed to become more even now as she rested meant her mind would let her drift away soon.

She’d worked on him for the better part of an hour, and Merrick had obeyed her request when she asked him to straighten so she could reach his chest but not look at what she was doing, and had kept his mouth shut after asking her if she needed a break and she’d growled back that she “might cut into something else” if he didn’t stop fussing.

He’d watched her face instead. Watched emotions flash across it faster than he was able to pick up. Watched tears, smiles, frowns, and wistfulness pull at her delicate features, trying not to read too much into what had her moving through all those feelings.

Once she was finished, though, he hadn’t missed the slight sway of her body, and thankfully, she hadn’t protested too muchwhen he wrapped her in the cleanest blanket he could find, ordering her to lie down or he’d make her.

Merrick rolled his eyes at himself.

He wouldn’t—it wasn’t like he could order her to do anything anymore. As soon as her eyes met his, it was all over.

She held his heart.

His soul.

His everything.

Even his magic seemed to respond to her. The souls moved differently around her now, had done since she accepted him as her mate.

Merrick shook his head as he tore his eyes away from her small body, approaching the full-length mirror that rested against the wall by the tub.

His eyes lingered on the raised basin as he approached.

If she got some sleep, he could get water, maybe even heat it up for her using the small stove already laid out beneath the wooden tub so she could clean up.

His hands clenched the longer he glared at the stupid tub.

A fucking bath.

That’s what he could offer her?

Gods, he’d never felt this powerless before.

Not even growing up in that damned camp with the ruthless older soldiers who loved to abuse their power over him and the others whenever they could. That had stopped as soon as he came into his magic. Even the commanders feared him then, giving him a wide berth whenever he decided to stroll around the encampment.

Merrick’s eyes were still on the bath as he halted before the mirror.

He could feel the wounds from the markings Lessia had carved into his body begin to heal, the itching already starting, but he refused to touch them. He needed to ensure the coal dusthe’d scraped up from the floor around the tub remained inside as the skin closed.

On a deep exhale, Merrick shifted his gaze to the mirror.

He swallowed deeply.

Then swallowed again.

And again.

Again.

But he couldn’t stop the warmth building behind his eyes as they swept across his torso—across the words Lessia had marked his skin with.

Meeting dark, glistening eyes in the mirror as his continued to travel upward, the Death Whisperer nearly recoiled, but then he realized they really were his own.

The agony-filled darkness that seemed everlasting, that should have fled the sockets and taken over the world with its depth, was Merrick’s, and so was the hot tear that slipped down his cheek.

He couldn’t stop staring at it as it made its way down his blood-splattered face, tickling his cheekbone before sliding across his mouth, leaving an unfamiliar salty taste in its wake as it reached his chin and, after lingering for a second, fell to the floor with such a loud drip that he almost worried Lessia would have heard it and woken from what he hoped was now a slumber.