Chapter10
Ember
Under the quietness of night, I creep out into the hall. Wearing a white dress and cloak, I slip down the stairs as silently as possible. I even remained barefoot, not wanting to make any sounds as I move through the castle.
Vial tucked securely between my breasts, I hope that if I’m caught, I can simply say I needed some fresh air. Maybe they’ll believe me…maybe they’ll slit my throat like they did that other man. Who knows, really, but at this point, inaction is what will surely drive me mad.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I glance to the left and right just to make sure no one is near. The hall is empty, so I creep out and head toward the entrance to the dungeon. It’s dark. A gaping hole seemingly leading to nowhere, and yet, to me—this is the only place I can be where I don’t feel vulnerable.
And isn’t that insane.
Moving as quietly as possible, I reach out and feel for the next step before moving down. Each time, I’m careful not to fall. While my heart thunders, I listen for any sounds that would tell me someone was coming or that Rafferty was not alone in his prison.
So far, nothing but silence, so I continue.
One step. Then another.
When I reach the bottom, I breathe a sigh of relief. Until I see him. Curled in the corner, his back to me, he shivers. Every inch of his back is covered in lacerations. With his flesh torn completely open, his pain must be unimaginable, and before I know it, I’m rushing forward. “Raffe?”
He doesn’t say a word, and the only evidence he’s not dead his constant quivering—likely from the pain.
“Come on, I have something that can help you, but I need you to come here.”
“Ember?” my name is a growl leaving his lips, but it’s something.
“Yes. Come here. I can help you.” Reaching into the top of my dress, I withdraw the vial. “Heelean gave it to me.”
“Heelean?”
“Yes. Come here,” I repeat. “I don’t know how much time we have.”
“Moving is—” he hisses as he tries to sit, “difficult at the moment.”
I study the cell then gather my skirts and rush around into the empty neighboring one. “Dammit, Rafferty, who did this to you?” As I kneel beside the bars, my stomach churns at the sight of his torn flesh.
“Looks worse than it feels,” he whispers, but the words are a lie. Even I can see that.
“How is your front?”
He groans and pushes himself up on the back wall then grips the bars and faces me.
A tortured cry leaves before I can stop it. Just like his back, his entire abdomen is covered in the same lacerations. The fact that he’s even alive when his entire torso looks like it was just run through a shredder—that in itself is a miracle.
“Rafferty,” I whisper.
“I don’t want your pity.”
The way he spits the words out gives me the impression that this is not a man who cares to be seen as weak. What he can’t seem to understand, though, is how familiar I am with that very same need. “I don’t pity you,” I reply. “But I can help you.”
His golden gaze locks on mine, and we stare at each other for a moment. My need to help him, to save him from this pain, is so overwhelming it brings tears to my eyes. I don’t say another word, though, because doing so would be too much. Something else I know from my illness—sometimes the compassionate thing to do is remain quiet and allow the other person to make the decision for themselves.
Finally, he does. Each movement is slight, and his face remains contorted in agony until his back is to me. I remove the lid from the vial and wait, holding my breath until he finally settles his back to the bars.
“Are you ready?”
He grunts, something I take for consent as I dip my finger down into the vial. I honestly don’t even know if one is going to do the trick. I should have convinced Heelean to give me ten of the damned things.
Just in case it isn’t enough, I start on the worst wounds, gently touching the torn skin and slathering as much on as I can. I remain conservative with it, though, not wanting to use too much and risk not having enough for the front.