Page 61 of The Sins of Silas (The Otacian Chronicles #2)

Chapter Sixty-One

LENA

I awoke facing the firelight, still in Silas’s embrace, the room still dark. Everything that had happened began to process slowly. When reality finally hit me, I quickly turned and checked to see if he was alive. Instead, I managed just to wake him.

“Are you alright?” I asked nervously, surveying his handsome face.

“Mhm…” He just smiled sleepily and ran his thumb along my lips. “Do you still remember me?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, heart pounding at how close our naked bodies were. “I do.”

His smile began to fall. “I'm so sorry for what I said that night, Lena. I didn't mean it.”

I shook my head. “Don't be, Silas. I understand.” I remembered his words on the balcony now, and I held no ill feelings toward him at all. Changing the topic, I whispered, “We should switch.” I trailed my hand along his chest. “You should be by the fire.”

“You’ve warmed me up just fine,” he murmured, his fingers brushing my cheek.

I smiled bashfully, my eyes trailing to his chest. It took me a moment to realize he was completely shirtless in front of me.

“You are not to try and remove my shirt. You are not to touch my back skin to skin.”

Sensing my thoughts, Silas carefully sat up. I followed suit, holding both his hands and not caring that the sheet fell to my lap, exposing my bare breasts.

He clenched his jaw, and his breathing began to stagger. He nodded and glanced down, a silent permission to look at his back. At the place he kept hidden.

Slowly, I scooted behind him.

All this time, I wondered what tattoos would be inked, what tattoos held such meaning that he kept them secret.

But when I beheld his back, I choked on a sob.

There were no tattoos. Not a single one.

No…his back was obliterated. Several raised gashes were present, leaving minimal skin unblemished. I gently traced my hand on his skin, the action causing him to flinch. The wounds had been so deep, and with how they had healed, it was clear he was continually beaten before the previous injuries had even healed.

He had been tortured. Whipped. Burned. Flayed.

“My Gods, Silas,” I breathed, my lip trembling. “Who did this to you?”

He was silent for a few moments before he responded quietly, “My father.”

“Ulric?” I asked in disbelief. “I-I don’t understand.”

Silas turned to face me, his brows drawn together. “When my mother died, my father increased my training. Said I needed to be strong, ruthless, unfeeling. He began to take me on ‘hunts’, as he called them. Intel would come in about potential threats, and we would ambush and kill everyone…

“I was devastated when I learned you were dead, Lena. My whole world in those couple of weeks had shattered completely.” He sighed. “When my father had found me sobbing in my room after seeing your corpse, after I punched him for telling me to be glad it wasn’t someone ‘of importance’ who’d died, he pulled out a dagger. That was the first time my father used something other than his fists to harm me.” He pointed to the scar on his left cheek. “This was the first scar he gave me.”

I shook my head, fury bubbling inside of me. How could he do that to his own son?

“Ulric wished for me to be like him, cold and merciless. But to go out and end people's lives, seeing the fear in their eyes, hearing their cries as they begged for mercy…” He shuddered. “I hesitated. I wasn’t ruthless like my father or the more advanced soldiers. I imagined they had families, people who loved them. It felt wrong just to slaughter them like nothing.”

His throat rolled as he swallowed. “That’s when the beatings began.” His eyes fell to his lap. “My father would do it himself. Any time I showed sympathy, anytime I showed an ounce of compassion, I would be whipped.”

My breathing was unsteady as my hand continued to trace his back softly. He slowly eased into my touch.

“That went on for about six months. Eventually, whipping turned to cutting. Cutting to burning. Then back to whipping.” He shook his head. “I would go to practice so sore, but I couldn’ t tell anyone. I was too ashamed. Sometimes, I would fuck up too close together, and I would be whipped over marks that were still healing, opening them up once again. Or burned over fresh burns. My back would constantly ache or itch. I'm shocked I never got an infection.”

His tortured eyes found mine again. “I thought it was the worst pain I could experience, next to losing the people I loved more than anything. But…” He released a shaky exhale, his voice a mere whisper. “I was wrong.”

He got quiet, and his body began to shake. His eyes shut tight, and his frown and clenched jaw told me that he was trying to stop from crying. I touched his cheek and pulled him to meet my eyes.

A few tears released as he bit down on his lip, and his voice trembled when he spoke again. “I’m going to tell you why I hate Roland, Lena,” he whispered, a haunted gleam in his eyes. “But you will not look at me the same again.”

My stomach fell at his words.

“It was noticeable to my friends that I had changed after the deaths of my mother and, unbeknownst to them, you. Even more so once my punishments began. Edmund and Hendry would ask me if I was alright, I’d lie, and that would be that.

“But one morning, after a particularly gruesome beating, Roland came up to me. I’d stood up for him before in the past when guys his age tormented him, and while I knew he appreciated that, I was still the Prince. He was never himself around me.” He sighed through his nose. “Until that morning.”