Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 118042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 590(@200wpm)___ 472(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
* * * * *
“Henri. Henri.”
The clanging of chains and the tinny whack of metal against metal echoed in my ears. It reached down, down, down into the abyss where I now lived.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t seem to crawl out of it for long.
My eyes cracked open.
The pain swamped me.
But…it didn’t seem as debilitating as before.
The fiery ache from dislocating my shoulder had abated, the joint now stiff and seized from the endless cold and almost constant unconsciousness. The hundred contusions along my torso and legs slowly slipped through the sickly colours of healing. A cast covered my right ankle and foot. Another locked around my left forearm above my cuff. Heavy bandages wrapped around my torso, keeping me marginally warmer but not stopping the sharp pinch each time I breathed with broken ribs.
I’d never been so badly beaten before.
Hadn’t been prepared for how even my blood ached. How my tendons felt overstretched and my muscles nothing more than congealed meat. Lacerations cut the inside of my mouth from my teeth slicing into my cheeks when the guards walloped their fists into my face. The concussion that slithered around my thoughts—making them soupy and foggy—had improved, but it hadn’t fully gone.
Regardless how much time had passed, I didn’t fully heal.
And time did pass.
I wore the ticking hands of it on my own body.
Outwardly, my bruises faded and my bones throbbed with internal knitting. Each time I woke, I had a little more strength. But…while my body fixed itself outwardly. Inwardly? My soul died, piece by piece.
“Henri, please stay awake,” Ily’s plea cut through the vicious allure of sleep. I did my best to stay coherent even though being alive hurt worse than anything.
No, not anything.
What hurt the most was knowing I’d failed her.
Failed Peter.
Failed every jewel.
Everything I’d hoped to achieve was over now.
We lost.
I killed us all.
I just wanted death to claim me because I didn’t deserve to be here. I didn’t deserve to talk to her in the snatches of time between nightmares. Didn’t deserve to see her fading across the dungeon, her gorgeous skin going sickly from lack of sunlight, her curves vanishing thanks to starvation, the light in her golden eyes turning dull.
But…while she breathed, I had to breathe.
While she still fought, I would fight.
With a guttural groan, I shifted upright on the plywood cot that’d been my coffin for too long. No mattress beneath me. Only a scratchy woollen blanket to cover me. Every inch of me cracked with filth and dried blood, minus the areas of my body that had open wounds.
Those areas were neatly scrubbed and dressed, ensuring I didn’t die of infection.
I vaguely remembered having an IV line attached to me for a while in the beginning. I’d flinched as the needle poked into my vein. I’d found Dr Belford’s face looming over me before I’d drifted off on another river of sleep.
Rubbing my eyes, I gathered what strength I had and forced myself to focus on Ily and Peter a few metres away. They had their own wooden cots, blankets, water bucket, and enough chain so they could move to the toilet tucked behind a rock wall.
My gaze locked on their golden collars flickering in the lights glowing on the chilly dungeon walls. Such a regal, royal metal, yet it marked us as the lowest of the low.
My heart twisted as I glanced at the cuffs around my own wrists.
They lashed my arms with a never-warming cold, the small electricity nodes on the inside band scratchy against my already beaten skin.
I’d tried getting them off in one of my more energetic moments. I’d whacked my wrists against the dungeon walls over and over again, clanging, clanging, clanging.
The broken bone in my forearm did not appreciate that.
It’d ached with fire for days afterward.
And for what?
My attempt at removing the godawful cuffs hadn’t worked.
And I’d passed out from the effort.
Skipping more days, losing more time, more hope, more life.
I sighed heavily as the chain tinkled behind me, connecting to my collar, keeping me firmly locked on this side of the cell. I could reach the toilet too—with an age of shuffling and blackspots dancing on my vision—but I couldn’t reach them.
Couldn’t touch her.
Hug her.
We’d tried.
On the first day I’d had the strength to fall out of bed, I’d crawled toward her. My eyes stung with the need to feel her. My heart felt like it would explode if I didn’t kiss her.
She’d dashed toward me.
Peter had shook his head sadly.
And we’d both jerked to a stop, just centimetres from touching.
A few lousy millimetres.
That was all that blocked us from comforting one another. Caressing and loving, sharing body heat and love in a place so full of hate.
“Henri…”
I forced a smile and looked at the love of my life. “I’m okay, mon cœur. I’m up.”