Page 8 of Bought By the Revenant (Monsters’ Bride Market #1)

Chapter Eight

Riven

I stand in my workshop as morning light comes through the high windows and casts long shadows on the tables and cabinets around me.

I run my fingers along the spine of an old journal, noticing how rough the leather feels after years of use.

I haven’t made a new revenant in years, and now I mostly do consultation and research, but I still come to this room often, because this place of science and magic has shaped everything that I am.

The workshop stays clean and organized with every instrument where it belongs.

Glass jars sit in rows on the shelves, some containing preserved specimens that have proven useful in my studies of organic material compatibility.

Old books about soul transference sit stacked on the reading desk, their pages marked with notes from thousands of experiments.

The surgical table sits in the center of the room, and shines because Tomas scrubs it clean every week, even though I don’t use it for practical work anymore.

Amity has never been in here because I make damn sure to keep her away.

When she explores the mansion, I guide her to the gardens, or the kitchen, or the library, because those are places full of life and comfort, not this room that holds too many memories of death and unnatural rebirth.

Our talks have become easier and more natural over these past days, but I still keep this one barrier between us.

A scream coming from the garden cuts through the silence and pulls me from my thoughts.

I rush out of the room, run through the corridors and out the back door, and my feet, mismatched as they are, carry me faster than most people can move.

The sound came from the eastern section of the garden, where Amity has been working to clear the overgrown flower beds.

I find her there, on her knees in the dirt, and she’s holding her arm tight while blood leaks out between her fingers and drips bright red against her pale skin.

“What happened?” I kneel beside her.

“The old metal fence,” she says through gritted teeth. “It collapsed while I was pulling the vines away.”

She lifts her hand to show me the damage, and I see a deep cut that starts at her wrist and goes halfway up to her elbow.

Blood flows out of the wound and soaks into the ground.

I need to think and act quickly. Her bedroom is on the far side of the mansion, while my workshop is close and has everything I need to fix her.

I hesitate because I don’t want her to see that room, but then I groan in defeat and admit that her safety matters more than my secrets.

“Riven,” Amity sounds panicked. “I need help!”

I shake my head, then nod. Damn it. I have no choice.

“I need to stitch this immediately. Can you walk?”

She tries to stand up, but her body sways and she almost falls over.

I reach out a hand to steady her, half expecting her to jump at my touch.

She doesn’t. In fact, she leans into it, and I lift her up into my arms, holding her body against my chest while being careful not to hurt her more.

Her good arm goes around my neck for support, and she presses her face against my shoulder.

I can barely breathe. I will my feet to move, and I carry her inside the house, grateful that my body moves on its own.

My mind is gone. I have her in my arms – my beautiful, perfect bride – and she doesn’t flinch away from me, doesn’t turn her head in disgust. She holds onto me, and when I steal a glance at her face, I see that her brows are furrowed from pain, but not from terror.

“I’m taking you to my workshop,” I tell her. “It’s closest.”

She nods imperceptibly.

When we reach the heavy oak door, I stop for a second.

“Amity, what’s inside... it might disturb you.”

“Less disturbing than bleeding to death,” she says. “Just hurry.”

I push the door open with my shoulder and carry her into the room.

Her body goes rigid as she looks around.

She doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her demeanor changing.

I set her down on the worktable and move to gather what I need: clean cloths for the blood, antiseptic solution to prevent infection, and a needle with thread to close the wound.

“This will sting,” I warn her before I pour the antiseptic over her wound.

She sucks in air through her teeth, but keeps her arm still for me, all the while her eyes roaming over the shelves and cabinets. I work the way I always have, cleaning the wound before I prepare to stitch it closed. My hands stay steady, but my mind is racing. What is she thinking?

“I need to stitch this closed,” I say while threading the curved needle. “It will hurt.”

“I trust you,” she replies.

My stomach roils, and I think I’m going to be sick.

I look at her sitting on my worktable, her small form completely out of place in this dreadful room, and I can’t believe she just said those three words.

She trusts me. Despite what I am, despite what I do…

She senses me looking and glances up, and our eyes lock for a moment.

Her pupils are wide, her dark hair is disheveled and sticking to her neck and face, but she isn’t terrified.

Not that she should be, because I’d do nothing to harm her, but people don’t think like that when they’re in my presence.

“Riven?” She gives me a smile.

I want to smile back at her, but my brows furrow instead. I feel like I’m going to cry again. How utterly pathetic.

“Sorry,” I say, clearing my throat and looking down at my hands. It’s a miracle they’re so steady on the needle when I’m so stupidly overcome with emotions. “Sorry.”

“I’m fine.”

She thinks I’m talking about the pain I’m about to cause her as I stitch up the wound, and she’s half right.

I’m also apologizing for how much of an idiot I am.

I push the needle through her skin for the first stitch.

She tenses but doesn’t pull her arm away, and instead she watches me work.

I close the wound one stitch at a time, making sure each one is perfect.

“You’re good at this,” she says as I tie off the final stitch. “I suppose you’ve had practice.”

I pull back from her and turn away. I grab a clean bandage and start wrapping it around her arm, making sure not to look at her face. Then I feel her hand touch my arm.

“Riven,” she says softly, “how did you come to be this way? Are revenants born or made?”

Her question is direct and unexpected. It catches me unprepared, and I take a step back. Now that she’s safe, I need to put distance between us.

“It’s better you don’t know.”

“I’m not that fragile,” she says. “I decided I wouldn’t run from you when I chose you at the market, and I’m not running, am I?

I see the way you look at me, like you’re expecting me to bolt.

I won’t, Riven.” She waves her good arm around the workshop.

“This room tells your story, right? I don’t understand it, but you can explain it to me. I want to know you, that’s all.”

I look at her face and search for any sign of fear or disgust, but all I see is determination to know the truth.

After thinking about it for another minute, I pull a stool over and sit down, realizing that my legs are about to give in.

There’s a weight on my shoulders, and I curl within myself, elbows on my knees and face in my hands.

“Revenants aren’t born,” I begin. “We were once formless souls, pure energy drifting through the cosmos without purpose or identity. The event that happened on your planet, the one you call the Shift, sent out a sort of signal into the universe. Like a message. It was so strong that it pulled our spirits to Alia Terra.”

She hums softly, and I wonder if she truly understands. Maybe I don’t know how to tell this story. I’m so bad at this.

“We arrived as ethereal beings, unable to interact with the material world. We observed the creatures here, beings with solid forms, distinct identities, the ability to touch, build, and feel. Before, we had no concept of an individual self, no names, no individual histories. These were human concepts we witnessed and began to yearn for. But to live on Alia Terra, to become something tangible, we needed bodies.”

I stop to gather my courage for what I need to say next.

From between my splayed fingers, I steal a glance at her.

She’s watching me intently, not moving. She’s barely breathing, as if she thinks that if she makes the smallest move or sound, I’ll stop talking.

Do I seem to be that flighty? Maybe between the two of us, I’m the one who’s ready to run, not her.

“The very first attempt to give a revenant spirit a material body was made by a human scientist named Franklin. He was a rare individual who could communicate with our kind. His first attempt was a complete failure. Both the stitched body and the soul perished.”

I stand up and walk to the window, where light falls across my mismatched hands. I don’t want to run away from her. I want to run away from myself.

“I was his second attempt.”

I don’t say another word for several minutes.

“What was it like?” Amity asks.

I sigh and turn back to look at her. What am I doing? Why am I dragging this out? I decide to tell her everything without hiding any of the terrible parts. If she wants the truth, then I’ll give her all of it no matter how horrible it sounds.

“Imagine your consciousness – formless, weightless – suddenly being forced into a rigid container made of disparate pieces. Every nerve ending raw and screaming as your essence fills a dead space. My soul had to weave itself into dead tissue, find connections between parts that were never meant to join. Each segment of this body came from somewhere else, someone else. Each carried its own echo of pain, its own fragment of memory.”

I touch the stitches on my face and trace the black threads with my fingertips.