Page 30 of Shadebound (Dark Fantasy #1)

T he showers in the Mors arena bathrooms were wrong.

Not broken-wrong. Not unsanitary-wrong. Just..

. off. Like the architects had designed them with cruelty in mind.

There were no curtains, no stalls. Just rows of exposed showerheads set into cold black stone, the water scalding or freezing with no in-between, steam curling like ghosts over the slick floor.

It echoed too much. Like every drop was screaming.

The air smelt like wet iron and cracked soap.

Mors clearly didn’t bother with things like comfort.

It was a place designed to strip you down in every possible way.

Zayden led me straight there. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I couldn’t argue. Not when my arm had only just knitted itself back together, still faintly sore despite the cuff. Not when I could still feel the imprint of Tyler’s boot on my skin. Or when my pride felt like it had been scraped raw against the arena floor.

Now, I stood under one of the furthest showerheads, where the light was dim and the steam hung heavier.

Water sluiced over my skin, too hot, reddening my shoulders and spine, sliding down my back like needles.

It didn’t help. Nothing did. My limbs hung like stone.

My chest was too tight. My magic kept pulsing in tiny flickers against my fingers, desperate to fight but unable to.

Zayden waited just beside the tiled divider, where the spray didn’t reach. He leant against the black stone wall, shadows licking at his collarbone. His hair was damp from the mist, curling at the edges, and he kept his eyes firmly on the wall.

He didn’t stare at me even though we’d been naked in front of each other before. Even though we’d slept together. He never acted like it gave him any rights.

And me? I wasn’t bothered. Not really. There was a weirdness to it—something quiet and low in my stomach—but it wasn’t shame or nerves.

Just awareness. I was too tired for anything else.

Too sore. Too raw. And too used to Zayden’s presence to flinch away from it now.

Being naked in front of him didn’t feel dangerous. It felt oddly safe.

The sound of the water filled the silence between us. My skin prickled from heat and memory.

Still, after a few minutes, I murmured, “Thanks. For stepping in even though you couldn’t do much.”

He nodded. “Like I would have done anything else.”

“True,” I mused. Before I let the silence stretch until I was clean again.

When I turned the shower off, steam clung to me in ribbons, and my head started to hurt again. Zayden was already moving, tossing me a towel without asking.

“You’re still moving weird,” he said. “Let me help.”

He waited for me to nod before stepping forward, careful as he helped me dry off. His hands brushed over my shoulders, down my back, not lingering. When I was wrapped in the oversized uniform shirt again, I sank onto the bench beside the lockers and rubbed at my temples.

Everything inside me still throbbed, and I was desperate to get my goblet and pick something thoroughly strong to drink.

Zayden crouched in front of me to retrieve my boots. That’s when I saw it—silvery smears streaked along the skin of his stomach, just above his waistband. Too viscous for sweat. Too shiny for dirt.

“Are you bleeding?” I asked, frowning.

He glanced down, then muttered, “Shit. That’s not mine.”

He grabbed a cloth from the shelf that contained the... urgh... communal towels and wiped it off.

“Sparred with Luna earlier,” he added. “She must’ve had another nosebleed. Didn’t realise it got on me.” His face fell. “She’s been having nosebleeds almost every day lately. I’m starting to worry.”

I watched the metallic gleam smear into the fabric and vanish.

My stomach turned slightly. Poor Luna. Silvermorn poisoning was a slow, brutal thing.

I’d watched my uncle die of it. There’d been nothing noble about the way his body had folded in on itself.

One minute strong. The next, broken from the inside out. Like watching a house collapse.

“I hope she goes gently.” I murmured. “Not that she ought to go at all.”

Zayden didn’t say anything more. Just sat beside me, elbow resting loosely against mine. We didn’t touch, not really, but the warmth was close enough to feel. My shoulders relaxed fractionally in his orbit.

He glanced over, silver eyes still half-shadowed, and said, “You handled yourself well, y’know. Even if today was shit.”

I snorted faintly, not quite convinced.

“I mean it,” he added. “You’re not a fighter yet—but you will be. And when you are, you’ll knock Tyler flat on his ass so hard he’ll taste dirt for a week. Might even break his nose on purpose.”

A reluctant smile twitched at my mouth. “Is that your version of a pep talk?”

“Absolutely,” he said, voice dry. “Spite is excellent motivation. Revenge? Even better. Give it a few weeks training with me, and you’ll be terrifying. We’ll make it fun.”

“Fun, huh?”

“Oh yeah. Nothing says bonding like targeting our shared enemies.” He grinned harder. “Dorian couldn’t fight for shit when he got here. Within three months I helped him become less of an angsty book boy, and more of a fighter.”

My head cocked. “He liked books?”

“Poetry mostly.” Zayden replied, as he bumped my shoulder gently, and I let my head rest there for a moment.

Then I remembered I had to be an adult, and our next lesson started in a handful of minutes. So got to my feet with a huff, pretending that I hadn’t read dozens of his friend’s innermost secrets stamped between the pages of heart wrenching poetry.

Or that I wasn’t thinking of the one I’d read last.

From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were — I have not seen As others saw — I could not bring My passions from a common spring.

Dorian had scribbled underneath it; This is the closest thing to my soul on paper.

Shoving aside my thoughts, I squeezed water out of my hair and combed through the strands with my fingers. My arms were stiff. Everything ached. The bruises beneath my skin throbbed.

“Here,” he said quietly. “Turn around.”

I hesitated, but then did as asked.

He started braiding my hair. Carefully. His fingers were warm, surprisingly gentle. It was a slow thing—like he wanted to give me a reason to stay still. Each section of hair twisted with care. I could feel his breath on my shoulder.

There was something stupidly intimate about it. Him dressing the wounds no one could see. No questions. No pity. Just hands in my hair, and silence.

I closed my eyes again. Let him finish.

Let myself wonder if I could get him to do this again without having a beating first.

When Zayden tied it off with one of my hairbands from his wrist, he didn’t move away. I half turned, and for a heartbeat too long, we looked at each other. The air thickened. Like something could shift. Like something should.

I watched his gaze flick over my face—slow and steady and unreadable.

Then he reached out and gently tapped the tip of my nose with his knuckle.

“Come on, Heartache,” he said, lips tugging into the barest hint of a smirk. “Next lesson’s waiting.”

I let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh.

And followed him out.