Page 54 of The Sea Witch’s Son (The Villains of Wolf Hollow #1)

Chapter 5 3

MARLIN

I always knew I would die young.

Death is a fact of life, and given my natural ambition, it was only a matter of time until someone came along and cut it down. It’s been many years since I accepted my fate, but I must admit, I did not expect to die quite this young.

Every sound that comes out of the bathroom has the organ inside my chest convulsing. Sharp fragments slice through my vital organs, piercing the soft tissue until I have no choice but to bleed out, right here on my bedroom floor.

I cannot believe I ever wanted to feel alive.

The world rips at the seams as I rest my head against the bathroom door. I am close enough to hear the sound of running water, close enough to feel the pain radiating through the girl crying on the other side .

My little saint is ruining me. Drowning me with her sorrow, suffocating me with her heartache. It is everything I feared I would one day become, a man who is nothing more than his greatest passion.

His greatest downfall.

I am listening to her fall to pieces, listening to my heart fail to keep me alive. My little saint has been broken and I seem to be breaking right alongside her.

There are no words to describe the pain I feel when I step inside the bathroom. The horror I face when I reach my walk-in shower and find a small figure curled up on the tiled floor.

Hot water rains down on her, soaking through her shivering body. Red hair swirls around the drain, the murky liquid blending into the dark colour while Melody sobs into her knees.

It is the picture of a decimated heart, and I fear it was stolen straight from my chest.

Blood melts off my hair and drips down my body when I step under the spray. I don’t bother taking off my dress pants, I simply lie on the tiled floor and pull my little saint into my arms.

“M-Marlin. I-I don’t want you here.”

Even as her words lash out, her body curls into mine. Her tears stain my skin in a way her nails never could, piercing through the surface until I feel it deep in my bones.

“W-Why won’t you go away?”

“The shadows are my territory, little saint.” Pressing my lips against her forehead, I whisper the promise against her skin, “You can’t hide from me in the darkness. ”

I told her that some people are difficult to love. Some people are not meant to find the heart that gives as much as it receives simply because their own heart is too dark to ever find someone strong enough to compete.

I was trying to tell her that I was the one who was difficult to love. Not my mother, not my father, but me.

Water pours down on us, washing away the grime and gore. I hold onto her, not because I want to but because I have to.

When you find a heart as dark and twisted as your own, there is no choice but to hold on. To cling to the hope that perhaps this is the person who will choose to stay.

Perhaps this is the heart that will choose to love my own.

I hold onto her until the water runs cold. I hold onto her until the darkness absorbs us both and there’s no light in sight.

And then I put her back together again.

Gathering her up in my arms, I carry her out of the shower. I wrap her up in one of my towels and carefully place her shivering body in my bed.

My comb is too thin for her hair, so I use my fingers to untangle her knots. It is a slow, painful process, but I don’t stop until every red strand is free from the mess of this evening.

Once that’s done, I gently towel her off. Smoothing the soft cloth over her skin, I study the cuts and bruises someone else left behind. The broken nails from when she tried to fight. The marks around her wrist from how she was held down .

Those big blue eyes remain far from my face as I tidy her up. Not once does Melody meet my eyes, and when I make it to her legs, she closes them completely.

“Let me see.” Nudging her legs, I wait for her to open them, “Come on.”

She shakes her head and tears slink out beneath her eyelids.

“Please, little saint. Open for me.”

It takes a few minutes, but eventually she does.

I run the towel up her legs, carefully drying off the excess water. When I get to her centre, I stop and spread her folds gently.

Horrible bruising lines the edge of her pussy, the dark colour making my blood boil. There are cuts down here too, from where he ripped her lining, and it does not take an intelligent man to know why she won’t meet my eyes.

There is nothing sexual about the way I caress her damaged parts. Nothing salacious about the way I press my lips to her wounds. It’s a reassurance that I do not see her any differently.

It's a promise that I could never see her differently.

“Still the same beautiful pussy.” I press another kiss to her bruises, so she knows I mean it, “Still the same stubborn little saint.”

Her eyes finally find mine, but I don’t like what I see. Vulnerability and shame swirl around the shades of blue like quicksand, drowning out the fire and resilience I’ve grown to admire .

I see it then, the piece of her that’s missing. The pride of being a woman who fights back, a woman who is smart enough not to put herself in these situations.

It is a piece I am all too familiar with, and I know what I have to do to get it back.

Reaching inside my chest, there is nothing but fragments left. Fragments that I am only too willing to hand over if it means putting my little saint back together.

A piece of her for all the shattered pieces of me.