Nineteen
Present
Savage
He slides the garment off her, discards it on the floor, and then he picks her up. He takes her down the steps and into the waist deep water. It’s hot and scented. Savage relaxes his back against the wall of the tub, careful to keep her sleeping form in his arms so her head is above the water. Her warmth seeps into his cold skin, until he feels it at his centre.
He shuts his eyes for a moment, holding up that wall with all his strength. The one that kept him alive, that pushed him to his limits—
The wall he shut the world—her—out of.
His arms are stiff, and he doesn’t look at her. It was hard enough watching her stand in the room earlier with just the hood over her head. There was blood running down her legs. She had black bruises along her arms and thighs. She had been through a considerable amount of trauma. Her tiny form was shaking, and he expected her to crumble, to collapse to the ground the second that door closed shut.
But Skye didn’t.
Of course she didn’t.
She was always so strong.
He had circled her, his steps quiet, eyeing her head to toe. He was reluctant to come closer, making sure she was just out of reach. She was less real that way, and she spooked him. Like a being from a different world, she appeared ethereal, a distant figment of his past.
He should not have frightened her.
He should not have kissed her so violently, he could still feel the aches on his lips.
This is a big problem.
This…changes everything.
He was so close—
So fucking close.
But leave it to the Dungeon to sink its claws into you.
Leave it to the Dungeon to claim not only your soul, but to keep you in its midst in physical form right to the very end.
“What have you done?” he whispers to her sleeping form, refusing still to look at her. “What the fuck have you done, Skye?”