The Infernal King | 1 ✓

CHAPTER XXV | SIPS OF TEA AND WINE

       THE NIGHT WAS a messy blur.

It was the kind of blur that could be created by tear-filled eyes or watercolour paints—both would give the same effect of a world melting away.

As far as Maarit was concerned, the events of the evening were completely illusory. If not for the striking bruises flowering across her neck like malevolent violets, the memories that played over and over in her mind, the ache between her legs and the rawness in her throat from screaming, Maarit might have thought she had dreamt up the whole thing.

It was a feeling of the strangest proportions. Her head was spinning and could simply not process what had just happened.

Kneeling upon the tiled bathroom floor, she swayed slightly and collapsed against the wall, leaning on it for support. The contents of her stomach were spilled; she turned her face away to keep the putrid smell from wafting to her nostrils.

She was very vaguely aware of the fact that the two men had followed her, but she refused to look up nonetheless. She felt an unexplained anger directed at the pair of them. Perhaps she was upset that they had been too late.

Or perhaps she was upset that she had needed them so badly in the first place.

There was some shuffling, and then a tentative voice uttering only her name. "Maarit...?"

Evidently, it was the warlock. King Theodoracius's tone was never tentative when he spoke.

She buried her face into the folds of her arms. The incessant urging to calm her own heart only caused the clamouring to worsen. Through cracked, vomit-encrusted lips, she let out a breathy sigh that turned to a quaking sob halfway out.

There was more shuffling and she heard footsteps approaching her, so she peeked out at Alexander. He knelt at her side and hesitated before reaching out for her. His hand extending to touch her—no matter its intent—seemed like a threat in a way it never would have seemed before. It reminded her of Sergius's hands on her skin. Of being violated.

"D-d-don't touch!" she managed to blurt, shrinking away from him and melting into the wall. "D-don't—"

And cries overtook her body once again.

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       MAARIT SHIFTED UNCOMFORTABLY, taking care not to cast a single glance in the direction of the monarch seated at the opposite end of the impossibly long table. At long last, after having lingered above the chair for a few minutes, she sank into it with resolve. Droplets of water fell from the ends of her hair, splattering onto the table and leaving behind traces of her lilac scent.

She had bathed—scrubbing her skin clean until it was raw—and changed her clothes, and still, nothing could wash away the inexplicable shame mounting within her.

She did not blame herself.

She could not blame herself.

Yet somehow, she was guilty and ashamed that she had not been strong enough to fight back. She was supposed to be strong. It had become a responsibility for her and she hated the powerlessness more than anything else. She wished that she could have been the one to kill Sergius, and felt that King Theodoracius had robbed her of that opportunity.