Page 41 of What Whispers in the Dark (Promises of the Marked)

R ain continued to fall, the air heavy with the scent of soaked earth.

For countless breaths, a steady cadence tapped against the crystal doors and windows of Alora’s rooms and flooded her glass skylight, casting the furniture, walls, thresholds, and rugs in waving ripples of light.

Alora descended the steps inside Garrik’s tormented mind as his body rested, eyes closed and head angled back against her anteroom’s wall, collecting his strength.

The few times she’d attempted to light her starfire from the top, it never reached the door forged of twisted steel and barbed iron, where he needed her most.

So, she fought the slithering magic consuming him, and the poison needled through her veins and bit into her back in warning at every step … until it cowered away from her starflames.

He didn’t argue when she slid an arm around his waist. Didn’t argue when she gestured for him to stand.

Steps heavy, off-balance, and stumbling; he didn’t utter a word as she guided him to the velvety couches across the room.

As if it were all he could do, he allowed her to settle him, sprawled across an ice-blue couch and her lap.

And as his unsteady head sank into the pillow, Alora made quick work of removing his boots, thumping them on the white floorboards below.

“You do not need to tend to me.” She hated how hoarse, how hollow and empty he sounded. Like the serpent’s magic had drained all life, and only ribbons returned. “I am?—”

“Used to this,” she finished. I know. She hated that too. An ache ripped through her fingertips, her heart.

He nodded, and for a moment went entirely still, staring up at the ceiling. As if in a distant world, those tortured eyes full of pain and humiliation and wrath appeared caught in a daze before he spoke so quietly, she almost didn’t hear him. “Ruined.”

It was as if the entire realm fell silent. As if it too waited for his next breath.

Alora didn’t dare move. Didn’t so much as touch him beyond laying her hands on his pants covering his shackle-scarred ankles.

Silence hovered for long moments. Then, Garrik’s eyes slipped shut, tight enough she didn’t doubt they would permanently seal by the pressure. “They…” he started. His voice broke. Shattered and defeated. “She ruined me.”

Some vital piece inside her had her tenderly clasping his bruised hand that wasn’t splinted, which was fisted on his abdomen, and wishing she was closer to soothingly thread her fingers in his hair and drop her forehead to his brow.

“She didn’t ruin you. She’s not that powerful,” she urged, watching his lips part, drawing in a ragged breath.

Little belief veiled his face, so, she said, “A broken sword can be reforged and made new.”

Garrik shuddered.

“That’s what you taught me.” How her shattered pieces had been reformed into something deadly, strong. A courage she never thought she’d own. How she didn’t tremble at the mere memory of who she once was or the visions of the hands that once painted bruises on her flesh.

Where an abyss of black often sat, now silver stared back, and he deepened a breath.

But that pain, that shame, still lingered there.

Enough that his splinted, broken hand attempted to bunch his shredded tunic fabric across his abdomen.

To cover his scars—the ones displayed by Ezander’s sword on that mountainside.

Alora carefully draped her hand over his, stopping him. As far as she was concerned, he was just as beautiful with the cracks showing. “You don’t have to hide and be so strong all the time, mighty prince. You’re allowed to break.”

She might as well have said he could breathe underwater by the look on his face.

Before he could argue, Alora moved her hand back to his ankle, and went on, “I will be here to help you mend the pieces after. And until you gather your strength…” She began running the pads of her fingers into the arch of his foot, feeling the burn scars through the fabric. “Is this okay?”

Garrik’s groan was answer enough, but he still managed, “Yes.” He didn’t utter another word as she massaged him.

Didn’t attempt to cover himself anymore.

With every gentle stroke, Garrik relaxed, his head pressing deeper into the pillow, his color returning to his face.

She almost thought he fell asleep when his breathy voice murmured, “I am not accustomed to this.”

“Foot rubs?” Her smile widened as she settled her attention on his shackle-scarred ankle, causing another groan when she pulsed warmth there.

“Being touched like this. So … gently.” His throat bobbed with a harsh swallow.

Struggling to keep his mind alert, he slurred, “Not being afraid of the monster I am. Of my darkness.” The flutter of his eyelids was enough of a warning, but the way his head tilted on the pillow was a good indication that he was almost lost.

Alora hummed, swirling her thumbs in his arches. “Monster? I think you’re kind of cute.”

He huffed a sleep-heavy laugh.

And she couldn’t help but wonder … why did it sound so mending—so vital? As if that very sound were the rhythm of her heartbeat. A call to flutter and leap.

“Cute,” he repeated. His mouth barely, barely tugged up in the corners.

“Undoubtedly, I have erred in exemplifying my terrible nature on that cliff. Something I intend to remedy.” He lightly growled in warning, a spark of life returning, inspiring visions of Ezander’s head on a pike.

Something gleamed in his half-lidded eyes, though.

Something soft and tender-hearted. A glimpse of the male she knew in the silence of empty tents and bedchambers, in the peaceful calm of midnight annuluses.

That smile grew then, his eyes sealed, and he lightly scoffed, “ Cute .”

Something wicked and clever twisted her mouth into a roguish smirk, a flawless mirror of the one he so often displayed.

Alora dug her fingers into the heel of his foot and waited for his pleasured groan to shrug and say, “You’re right.

” Eyes still closed, Garrik’s brow lifted. “I should have said adorable .”

A heartbeat later?—

Nothing but those primal eyes … nothing but the way his voice lowered …

“Do not tempt me to prove you incorrect, clever girl”—a rush swept through the corrupt parts of her, daring to wish he would, especially to those in this horrid kingdom—“I have killed for much less.” If anyone else, she knew he would thrill in doing just that, but this threat … to her … the emptiness in it …

She held her predator’s stare—the stare of Elysian nightmares, submitting to the tender stroke of her hand. “You don’t scare me.” A taunt. A reminder. Baiting him with the simple truth, followed by a firm squeeze along his calf muscle.

Apparently, it was enough to unsteel him. Half a thought and the last of his reserves faded. “So it would seem,” he murmured with a hint of bothered amusement.

If he wasn’t so thoroughly exhausted … “Surrendering so soon? Why , mighty prince, how unlike you.”

Garrik feigned defeat. His eyes closed, speaking to the air between them, “I recognize when unarmed in battle.” He yawned, featuring just how unarmed he was.

His head tilted deeper into the pillow, and she fought the urge to reach up and brush her fingers through his disheveled hair.

“How am I to fight such nonsense when your powers of bewitching … wielding words of … your weapons on my feet…”

Alora giggled as his words trailed away. “Now who’s speaking nonsense?” When his face laxed and he said nothing, she pulled a fleece blanket from over the couch and draped it to his waist.

Gone soon —she guessed. Maybe seconds now.

But Garrik still managed a soft hum. “Stop … my mouth. I know not what I am saying.”

Indeed.

Alora didn’t stop herself this time. The silken strands of his hair weaved through her fingers. Garrik leaned into that touch as she faintly coaxed, “Sleep. I’ll be here when you wake.”

The sound of his long breath was enough to suppose he had drifted off.

It wasn’t long before his body fell entirely limp—the very thing she’d hoped for.

And as her High Prince drifted into the sleep he so desperately needed, she couldn’t help but notice the way the corner of his mouth turned up slightly.

How his ear appeared as if it had once held piercings for jewelry.

The way his hair naturally parted and gathered across his forehead.

The way his eyelashes rested against his cheek.

How his injured hands flattened across his abdomen and wrinkled his tunic fabric, settled atop the scars displayed underneath.

A tear slid down her cheek before she recognized its warmth.

Not for pity—Garrik wouldn’t want that.

No. This was rage—unquenchable, rotten, hateful rage.

How many times had he fully succumbed to serpent magic against his will?

How many times did he wake alone? Dazed and confused and sustaining injuries he could not recall.

Blood on his hands that was not his own.

Terrified of himself. Adorning a mask of perfection and strength when he was forced to walk in the silence of his screams. Damning himself for what he could not control. For what they had left him with.

Ruined, he’d said— ruined.

And she couldn’t help but think… Where all he could see was ruin, she saw beauty.

Alora sank into the cushions, not stopping her fingers from pulsing warmth into his body as she surveyed the most breathtaking male she had ever seen—inside and out. Engraving every fine detail about him to memory, knowing that one day … one day he would be free.

Even if she had to become indebted to Darkness himself.

For Garrik, she would make certain of it.