Chapter 38
Cage
FINDING MILLICENT A BLOODY MESS on the ground, her throat scorched, had an unexpected effect on me. The darkness that I keep dormant has stirred, more awake in her presence than it’s been in years.
Did the witch think death would save her from me? That such a thing could keep her out of reach?
Nothing will.
Not the imp shielding her. Not death. Not even herself.
I catch myself spiraling down into those thoughts and shake them off, focusing on what matters now. She is mine to carry—for hours, no less.
I finally find one of the horses that had bolted. I was close to summoning Vryaxis, but thankfully, the creature had only rundown the path, avoiding the woods as if it could sense what lurked there.
I know Vryaxis would’ve set Millicent off. And right now, I don’t know exactly what she’s capable of. Not after what happened with Kalix.
She’s changing, and I am trying to be cautious.
I’ve underestimated others before, even underestimated myself, and it’s cost many lives.
She barely stirs as I lift her onto the horse, settling her in front of me. Even when we reach the castle, she doesn’t wake as I carry her through the halls and into my room.
I know Oliver’s likely pacing in her room, waiting, but he’ll only get in my way. And if she cries out while I clean her wounds, the little menace will surely bite me.
I kick my bedroom door shut behind me and lay her on my bed. The gown she wore tonight, a flimsy thing meant to help her blend in with the working girls, is barely clinging to her now.
It’s torn, soaked, and ruined. Her stomach, breasts, and back are exposed beneath what remains of the fabric.
I grab a dagger from my nightstand and cut the rest away. Modesty isn’t my concern, not when she’s this badly injured.
Her left side is black with bruises. Her ribs are definitely fractured. Her stomach and chest are laced with deep cuts, some still holding bits of wood and leaves.
I leave her for a few minutes to draw a warm bath. I set out two stools, one for me, one for the medical supplies I gather.
Then I return and lift her again. She doesn’t even flinch.
“Millicent. Wake up.”
I try being gentle. Nothing.
“Millicent, up.”
Still no response. I shift my shoulder, trying to jostle her head, but she stays limp. I sigh, kick off my shoes, and do the only thing I can think of next.
I step into the tub. Water sloshes over the sides, soaking into the floor. As I lower myself in, I settle her between my legs and rest her back against my chest.
“Really making me bathe you, huh?” I mutter to myself. I grab the sponge from the rim and lather it in soap.
When we were kids, she used to make me brush her hair—braid it, even. A strange tightness knots behind my ribs at the memory, this strange echo of caring for her again.
I start with her stomach, carefully scrubbing the dried blood and dirt from the cuts.
For a split second, my hand hesitates as I make her wince again. I push the hesitation down. Good. Pain means she can still feel and is still with me.
I ignore the fact she’s naked and moving in my lap. I focus. Another wood chip slides free from a deeper gash.
I rest my chin on her shoulder, watching the slow work of my hands. “Relax, little witch,” I murmur.
