Total pages in book: 362
Estimated words: 347293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1736(@200wpm)___ 1389(@250wpm)___ 1158(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 347293 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1736(@200wpm)___ 1389(@250wpm)___ 1158(@300wpm)
Until cool fingers threaded through my fur and the scent of citrus and fresh air reached me. “Liessa,” Ash called softly. “Come back to me.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Ash knelt before me, his fingers sifting through the fur beneath my chin as he lifted my head. Exhaustion was etched into the lines of his face and the shadows under his stunning eyes. “Please,” he said, the sound of his voice raw, several strands of shoulder-length hair slipping forward to kiss his jaw. “Please come back to me.”
His words were like magic. And as his gaze held mine, I willed myself to shift back into my mortal form with a shudder.
“Ash,” I rasped, my throat scratchy.
He made a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul. Gathering me in his arms, he sat back, pulling me between his legs and against his chest. Pain roared in the moment I returned to myself, and how tightly Ash held me didn’t help. But I ignored it, needing to be close to him. Neither of us spoke as he held me. As I clung to him. I had no idea where Nektas and the younglings had gone, but I knew we were alone.
I buried my face in the crook of his neck. I couldn’t seem to get close enough. I needed to feel his heart beating against my chest. When his arm loosened around my waist, I whimpered.
“Shhh,” he murmured. “I’m not going anywhere. I’m just getting you a blanket. You’re cold.”
A moment later, soft fur draped over my shoulders, and his arm returned to my waist. He clasped the back of my head, his fingers curling into the tangled strands of my hair.
“Sera,” he whispered, his large body trembling. He tightened his arms around me. “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
My fingers clenched the soft linen of his shirt. The breath I took burned my throat and nose. The blanket slipped down my back as I started to pull away.
Ash’s inhale was rough and stunted as he stared at me. I didn’t know what had caused that reaction until I looked down. Under the dried blood, there were bruises up and down my arms, some of them still an ugly shade of purplish-red. Others were an array of blues. Strangely, my lower stomach was the only area I could see that didn’t appear marked. Though I wondered what my throat looked like based on how he was staring at it. But then his gaze lowered to my chest. The bruise there was one of those ugly shades, darker than the areola.
Ash became rigid, his flesh thinning. “He touched you.” The tendons in his neck stood out starkly. “He hurt you.”
I didn’t deny it. I didn’t say anything. I closed the distance between us and rested my cheek on his shoulder.
Ash didn’t move for what felt like an hour, but then he tugged the blanket back up and folded his arms around me again. He didn’t hold me as tightly, though. “I want a Healer to look you over. The bruises should be gone by now.”
“No.”
“Sera—”
“I don’t want a Healer. I’m fine. I just used a lot of eather.” My voice still sounded hoarse. “I would like a bath.”
Ash wasn’t happy about my choice, but he relented. “I can do that.” He kissed the top of my head. “Hold on.”
He rose, carrying me into the bathing chamber. I could’ve walked, but I didn’t protest. He set me on the ledge and then placed his hand in the now-cold water, heating it. I shrugged off the blanket and stepped in. A breathy sigh left me as I sank down and reached for the soap.
“Let me.” Ash had rolled up his sleeves. He took the soap, setting it aside before cupping his hands in the water.
Warm liquid cascaded over my skin, and I watched crimson ribbons swirl away from my body, staining the water. Ash’s hands were gentle, traveling across the planes of my back, washing away the blood.
He had to be exhausted. He likely wanted nothing more than to wash the last two days from his body, but he took his time, running his soapy hands down both of my arms. He took care with my hands and fingers, erasing any traces of blood that lingered. He didn’t speak, but so much was said in how he methodically rinsed my hair, his fingers combing through the tangled curls with a tenderness I didn’t feel I deserved. Each time the water turned pink with evidence of the night’s violence, he drained the tub, only to refill it with clear, clean warmth from the unused buckets that had been brought in. He washed every part of me twice, almost as if he sought to cleanse away more than just the physical evidence of all that had happened. It was like he was also trying to remove the stains upon my soul, offering absolution I was too shattered to ask for.