Page 97 of Daggermouth

“I made it how you like it,” he said, gesturing to the tea. An attempt to get her to drink. “Three stirs counterclockwise.”

She lifted her head slightly, but didn’t look at him. “You remembered.”

“I remember everything about you.” The admission slipped out, too honest, too raw.

Those words seemed to break something in her. The sob that tore from her throat was harsh, grinding. Her whole body convulsed with it, and then another, and another, until she was shaking so hard the water sloshed against the tub’s edges.

“I can’t,” she said, the words barely making it out. “Callie, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t survive him much longer.”

Callum’s heart shattered open.

Every barrier, every defense he’d built, every wall he’d constructed between his feelings and his actions—all of it crumbled at the sound of her pain. For only a second his hands hovered uselessly in the air between them, wanting to reach for her, worried that she wouldn’t want him to—

Fuck it.

He didn’t care about propriety or boundaries or fucking walls.

Callum moved.

He stood, stepping into the tub and dropping into the water fully clothed. His expensive suit soaked through instantly, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care about anything except the way Lira immediately turned into him, pressing her face against his chest as her fingers clutched his shirt.

Callum’s arms encircled her immediately, drawing her into him, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other traced soothing patterns along her spine. His clothes clung to him, water seeping through to his skin, but he barely noticed. His entire universe had narrowed to the woman in his arms, to her pain, to the desperate need to take it from her.

“He’s—” She gasped between sobs. “He’s going to kill us. All of us. It’s only a matter of time.”

“No.” The word came out absolute. “No, he won’t. I won’t let him.”

A strangled laugh collided with her tears. “You can’t stop him. No one can stop him. We’re all afraid. All the time.”

The truth of her words settled into him, stark and undeniable. Fear was the currency of the Heart, the foundation upon which Maximus had built his empire. Fear of starvation and disease in the outer rings,fear of exile from the inner circles, fear of the execution platform and the man who wielded the trigger.

Callum pulled back just enough to meet her eyes, swollen and red-rimmed. His next words came without thought.

“Let me see you,” he whispered. “Please.”

The request hung between them for a moment, neither looking away from the other. Slowly, carefully, she tilted her head up.

His breath caught. The trust in that gesture, the intimacy of what came next nearly undid him.

Five years.

It had been five years since he’d seen her face.

His hand trembled as it rose, fingers finding the edge of her broken mask. She went still, holding her breath. The mask pulled away with a soft sucking sound, and Callum bit back a sound of pure rage.

The sight that greeted him sent a surge of fury through his veins so potent he had to fight to keep it from showing on his face. The mask had hidden the worst of it—the deep bruising along her jawline, the cut on her cheek where the mask had broken and sliced into her skin. A thin line of blood trailed from the corner of her mouth, and her left eye was beginning to swell, the delicate skin beneath it darkening to purple.

“Oh, my love,” he said, his breathing growing shallow as he stared at the violence that mapped her face.

Her eyes—those beautiful, intelligent eyes he’d been in love with for as long as he could remember—dropped from his, shame evident in the way she tried to turn away. Callum wouldn’t allow it. His hand came up, cupping her uninjured cheek, turning her face back to his.

“Don’t.” It was a command. “Don’t you dare be ashamed. This isn’t your fault. None of it is your fault.”

His other hand came up slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she didn’t, his fingers ghosted over the injuries, cataloging each one,filing it away in the ledger of debts Maximus Serel would pay. His touch lingered on the cut, feeling the heat of inflammation, the way she winced despite trying not to.

He leaned down, pressing his lips to the wound, a whisper of contact, a benediction. Not a kiss of passion but of promise, of reverence, of rage transformed into something almost holy.

Lira’s breath caught, her body going still beneath his lips.