Chapter 100 Forbidden Healing
I sat on the edge of the massive mattress, my knees pulled tightly to my chest. Hours had bled away since the heavy iron door had locked us inside. The only light came from the weak, grey light filtering through the high, narrow windows, casting long, bruised shadows across the stone floor.
I looked down at my hands. They were trembling, coated in a crust of dried silver blood, white quartz sand, and the slick, oily residue of the black sludge. My own crimson blood had dried in a dark, flaking line across my left palm.
But beneath my skin, something entirely new was humming.
It wasn't the ocean. It wasn't the volatile, pressurized magic of the Siren. It was a slow, steady, rhythmic thrum that echoed the exact cadence of the man lying beside me.
The blood-bond.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the strange, phantom sensation blooming in the center of my chest. It felt like a heavy, warm weight resting against my ribs. Through that invisible tether, I could feel his profound, bone-deep exhaustion. It pressed against the back of my skull, a dull, throbbing ache that didn't belong to me. I could feel the sharp, jagged spikes of pain radiating from his torn side, and the lingering, cold numbness of the curse sitting dormant over his heart.
He was entirely broken. And I felt every fracture.
I opened my eyes and looked at him. Klaus lay on his back, his head turned slightly toward me. The shredded remains of his dark linen shirt hung from his broad shoulders in filthy, blood-soaked strips. His chest was a battlefield. The four deep ravines carved by the Trench-Stalker’s claws ran from his lower ribs to his hip, the silver blood having coagulated into thick, crusty scabs. And above that, sitting over his un-beating heart, the black, necrotic veins of my ancestor's curse lay quiet, dark and stagnant beneath his pale skin.
He couldn't stay like this. The filth of the arena was still ground into his skin, the acidic saliva of the beast burning faint, red welts wherever it had touched him.
I pushed myself off the mattress. My legs felt like lead, my bare feet aching as they hit the cold stone. I walked to the washbasin in the corner. The water inside was still freezing. I grabbed a fresh, thick white cloth from the drawer, my movements slow and deliberate.
When I returned to the bed, I knelt on the mattress beside his waist.
"Klaus," I whispered. My voice was completely wrecked, a dry, broken rasp that scraped against my throat. The scream that had shattered the arena had left my vocal cords ruined.
He didn't wake, but through the bond, I felt a faint ripple of awareness.
I reached for the ruined collar of his shirt. I pulled the fabric gently, trying to peel it away from his skin. The linen had dried into the wounds on his shoulder. As I tugged, a sudden, white-hot sting flared in my own left shoulder.
I gasped, dropping the fabric. I slapped my hand over my unbroken skin, my heart hammering.
It wasn't my pain. It was his. The tether was so absolute, so intimately woven into my own nervous system, that his physical agony echoed directly into my brain.
I swallowed hard, forcing myself to take a deep, steadying breath. I picked up the heavy iron shears Sulla had left on the bedside table days ago. Moving with agonizing care, I cut the ruined linen away, slicing through the fabric rather than pulling it. I tossed the bloody rags onto the floor.
I dipped the white cloth into the freezing water, wringing it out until it was just damp.
I started with his face.
I pressed the cold cloth to his forehead, gently wiping away the layer of white quartz sand and sweat. I traced the sharp, aristocratic lines of his cheekbones, the heavy cut of his jaw. The grime came away, revealing the devastating, pale exhaustion underneath. I rinsed the cloth, the water in the basin quickly turning a murky grey, and moved down his neck.
I washed the dried black sludge from his chin, my throat tightening as I remembered the sight of him choking on the poison I had unleashed.
I'm sorry, I thought, pushing the emotion through the tether, hoping the warmth of my regret would soothe the dark edges of his sleep.
I moved to his chest. I bypassed the black veins completely, terrified that touching the curse would wake the rot. I focused on his right side, dragging the damp cloth over the heavy bands of muscle, washing away the silver blood.
When I reached his left side, where the beast had torn him open, my hand began to shake.
The cuts were deep, the edges of the flesh jagged and angry. I pressed the cold cloth against the uppermost wound to clean away the dried sand.
Klaus groaned, a deep, guttural sound of raw suffering.
A wave of sharp, tearing agony hit my own ribs. I squeezed my eyes shut, biting down on my bleeding lip to keep from crying out. I felt the burn of the torn muscle, the agonizing scrape against the bone. I rode the pain with him, holding my breath until the spike leveled out into a dull, throbbing ache.