Chapter 95: Chapter thirty Five: The Man with the Scar

Sharon’s POV

When I woke up, it felt like my skull was being split in two. My head throbbed so violently that I thought the world itself was spinning out of control. The first thing I saw was the dim glow of the firelight. It was orange and flickering, shadows moving around me like ghosts.

Then I realized they weren’t ghosts.

They were men.

Six of them. rough, dangerous-looking men with eyes as cold as stone. Their clothes were dirty, torn in places, and their bodies were covered in scars that told stories I didn’t want to imagine. One of them noticed I was awake and nudged another.

I tried to sit up, but my hands were tied behind my back, my ankles bound with thick rope. Panic flooded through me, sharp and suffocating.

“Who are you?” I demanded, my voice trembling despite my attempt to sound brave. “Where am I?”

None of them answered. Not a word.

The only sound came from the crackling of the fire and the occasional rustle of leaves as the wind blew through the trees. We were outside, somewhere deep in the woods. I could smell damp earth and smoke, and above us, the canopy of trees swallowed the sky whole.

“Please,” I tried again, my heart pounding. “Please, I don’t know what you want, but I swear I won’t tell anyone anything. Just let me go.”

Still, silence.

One of them, a tall, broad-shouldered, with a jagged scar along his jaw gave me a long, empty stare before turning away. My throat tightened.

“I’m pregnant,” I said, my voice cracking. “Please. I’m pregnant. You don’t have to do this.”

If I was hoping for compassion, I was foolish. None of them even blinked. My words fell into the cold air like ashes.

Hours passed. Maybe more, I couldn’t tell. The sky shifted from deep gray to pitch-black, and still, no one spoke to me. They just sat around their campfire, sharpening their blades, drinking from old metal flasks, and muttering quietly to each other in a language I didn’t recognize.

I tried to stay calm, but fear gnawed at me. My wrists were sore from struggling against the ropes, and every kick I made only burned my skin more. My baby kicked once, just a small flutter and tears filled my eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to my unborn child. “I’m so sorry.”

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I wasn’t supposed to die in a forest surrounded by strangers. I wanted to see my baby’s face, to hear them cry for the first time. I wanted to live.

The sound of boots crunching against the earth snapped me from my thoughts. One of the men approached with a tin bowl in his hand. Steam rose from it, but the smell was foul, like spoiled meat and wet soil mixed together.

He crouched in front of me, his expression blank.

“Eat,” he said gruffly.

I hesitated, shaking my head. “I—please, I can’t—”

Before I could finish, he grabbed my jaw so hard I yelped, forcing the bowl toward my mouth. The soup was thick and disgusting, like sludge. I gagged as he shoved it down my throat, and some spilled down my chin.

“Swallow,” he barked.

I did, just to stop him from hurting me. The taste made me want to vomit. My stomach churned, and I coughed violently until my throat burned.

When he finally pulled away, I spat out what I could. My tears mixed with the mess dripping from my chin.

“Please,” I whimpered. “I need to use the restroom.”

He ignored me, standing up and walking back toward the fire.

I tried again, louder. “Please! I need to go! I’m pregnant! Do you really want me to wet myself right here?”

That caught their attention. Some of them exchanged glances. After a moment of silent debate, the scar-jawed man grunted something, and another came forward to untie me.

He grabbed my arm tightly and jerked me toward the edge of the camp. “Make it quick,” he snapped.

“Thank you,” I murmured weakly, pretending to limp toward a tree.

The moment I was out of their line of sight, my pulse surged. I didn’t think so. I ran.

Branches scratched at my skin as I bolted through the forest, my bare feet pounding against the dirt. Every breath felt like fire in my lungs. I didn’t care. I had to get away. I had to get back to Morris. to safety.

But I didn’t get far.

Something hard slammed into my back, and my arms wrapped protectively around my belly before I fell face-first into the mud. The breath was knocked out of me. A rough hand grabbed my hair, yanking me upright. I cried out in pain.

The same man who’d fed me earlier sneered down at me. His face twisted with rage.

“Thought you could run, huh?” he spat.

Before I could beg, his hand came down across my face. hard. The slap echoed through the forest, and my vision went black for a second. The pain was sharp, hot, humiliating. Tears stung my eyes as I whimpered, clutching my cheek.

“Please—please, don’t—”

He raised his hand again, but before it could strike, a sound sliced through the air—a sharp whistle, followed by a low thud.

The man’s eyes went wide. Then blood poured from his mouth.

He collapsed at my feet, dead before he hit the ground.

For a heartbeat, I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. I looked up, expecting to see Morris step out from the shadows.

But it wasn’t him.

A man emerged from between the trees, tall and broad, his golden hair catching the firelight of the camp in faint glints. A long, jagged scar ran across his bare chest and up the side of his face, making him look both terrifying and mesmerizing. His eyes were an icy, piercing blue. They landed on me, and for a moment, I forgot how to speak.

He knelt beside the dead man, wiped the blood off his blade, and then turned his gaze back to me.

“I apologize for that,” he said, his voice smooth but dangerous, like silk wrapped around steel. “No true man should ever raise his hand to a woman. Especially not one carrying life.”

I stared at him, my breath coming in uneven gasps. “Who…who are you?”

He smiled faintly. It wasn’t warm, it was the kind of smile predators wear when they’ve already caught their prey.

“My name,” he said, his voice slow, deliberate, “is Aemond. Aemond Blackfyre.”

Goddess, help me.