pull, scratch, and hit the cuffs. I’m making myself bleed, but I don’t care, my only thought is that I must get free.
“625, you’ve returned to me,” says a voice that fills me with horror. Looking up, I see him standing over me, his hands clasped behind his back as he watches me with a sick, amused smile. Kneeling down, he inspects the mess I’ve made of my ankles and takes one of my hands in his, looking down at the torn skin and broken nails. A shudder of revolution racks me as he runs his thumb over my fingertips. Tutting, he shakes his head and lets go of my hand to touch one of my ankles. Running his finger through the blood, he examines the swollen, already bruising skin. All of a sudden, he presses his finger deeper into the wound, twisting and gouging as my shouts of pain resonate around us.
“I told you before, you’re mine and you will never be free of me.”
“Clarissa, wake up.”
I jerk upright and back away from the body that’s so close we’re almost touching as I look around in shock. What is happening? I know that accented, lilting timbre, and as I scan what I realise is a cave, I spot the owner of the voice—Vaeril. One of his hands is resting on my shoulder and his face is pinched into a frown.
“You were shouting in your sleep,” he says by way of an explanation, his hand lingering on me far longer than necessary.
With a deep breath, I lift my skirts and look at my ankles. I’m still wearing my stolen boots from the castle, and there is no sign of any shackles. Suddenly, a wave of residual fear from my dream washes over me and my boots feel constricting. I need to get them off, to see my bare, unshackled ankles. I struggle with the laces as I try to pull them off, the knots difficult for me as my fear makes me fumble.
“Clarissa?”
“I need to get them off, I need—”
Before I can finish my frantic, jumbled words, he reaches for my other boot and starts working on the knot there. Within seconds, my boot is off, and he gently bats away my hands and does that same with the remaining one. As soon as they’re both off, I breathe a sigh of relief and rub the scarred skin, reassuring myself that I’m free, I’m not back in the castle.
“I’m free. I’m free,” I whisper to myself, rubbing circles into my skin. “I will never be a slave again, I would rather die than go back,” I state out loud, and something settles over me as I come to this conclusion.
Vaeril has been silent during my freak out, but now he reaches forward and touches the skin just above my ankle.
“These scars...” He trails off, and I don’t know what he was going to say about them, but an anger has entered his eyes I’m not used to seeing.
“They’re from my cuffs. They would rub so badly, and they were never removed, so the wounds would never really get the chance to heal,” I explain numbly, watching as his fingers dance over my scars. I should be ashamed, the scars are ugly and I should cover them, but I don’t have the energy to care right now. Besides, Vaeril has his fair share of scars.
“Are you okay?” His voice is gentle and pulls my attention from his touch, my skin hyperaware of his soft caress. His expression is back to the blank mask I am used to seeing on him, so I’m not sure what he’s thinking, but he sounds like he genuinely wants to know the answer.
Taking a deep breath, I lift my hands and rub my face before brushing my hair back. It’s knotted and tangled, and I’m in dire need of a shower, but I don’t imagine I’m going to have much chance of that happening while I’m on the run.
“Yeah, I had a nightmare. I’m sorry.”
He nods at my apology, his eyes carefully tracking my movements. Removing his hand from my ankle, he sits back, and I make sure my face doesn’t show my disappointment at the lack of skin contact.
What are you thinking? He’s an elf, you shouldn’t want him touching you at all. Especially after kissing Tor last night.
My thoughts are a jumbled mess, my mind still half asleep. I’m just grateful he helped me escape. He offered me comfort during a difficult time, and