Page 138 of Dark Fate

His chiseled abs are a masterpiece, each muscle expertly carved, forming an alluring V that points like an arrow to my favorite toy. The striking black ink of his tattoos spans his chest, arms, and neck, each intricate design hinting at untold chapters of his past. The bold lines stand out against his skin, a testament to his strength and the darkness he's conquered. His raven locks fall carelessly over the jagged scar on his brow, the rugged stubble along his jaw accentuating his handsome, chiseled features. The interplay of unruly hair, battle-worn scar, and masculine beard creates an irresistible tableau of raw virility and untamed allure. Seeing him steals my breath and sets my pulse racing, every cell in my body drawn to his overwhelming presence.

Finally bare, he immerses himself into the steaming water, emitting a sigh that seems to carry the weight of his woes, a sound tangled with both release and apprehension.

Snatching up a nearby cloth, I squirt a dollop of soap onto it and start the task of cleaning my Tattoo Titan. My hands, guided by intent and tenderness, begin their journey across the landscape of his chiseled chest, meandering to his brawny arms and the column of his neck.

I'm meticulous, leaving no inch of him untouched by the cleansing ritual, ensuring every bit of him is refreshed and cared for.

Extending a hand, I gently sweep back the damp strands of his hair, clearing his forehead. "Rhyland," I begin, voice barely above a whisper, eyeing him with concern and care, "I want to understand what happened... what they did to you."

His eyelids fall shut, a curtain drawn over those deep, expressive blues as if to shut out the world. Minutes pass before he gives a feeble shake of his head, murmuring, "It's not worth remembering."

Despite his dismissal, I can sense the fleeting play of darkness that flickers across his closed lids. It's clear to me that he's already transported back to the depths of that grim cell, reliving the memories he desperately strives to keep at bay.

"Please," I persist, unwilling to let him retreat inward to cut himself off from me. "Tell me."

He resists with a shake of his head, muscles in his jaw tightening with the effort to remain closed off. "You don't need those memories in your head," he argues, his voice laced with the pain of recollection.

"I'm not asking because I need them," I assert firmly. "I'm asking because you need to share them. Let it out,Rhyland. Let me help you, please." I'm well aware of the effect my pleading has on this man—there's a twist of shame for playing that card, but damn it, I need answers.

Relinquishing the fight,Rhylandlooks up, his stormy blue eyes locking onto mine. The fierce currents of agony blend indistinguishably with affection within their depths. He reaches out, resting his hand over mine, his touch conveying a plea for understanding. "Close your eyes, and let me in your mind," he directs with a voice that leaves no room for dispute.

Obedient to his request, my eyelids fall shut, forming a blank canvas for his revelations. The physical world fades, and abruptly, I gaze not merely intoRhyland's eyes but into the very essence of his haunted past.

The memory engulfs me—

Azrael towers overRhyland, his imposing silhouette seemingly devouring the faint light that dares to penetrate the cell. His eyes, twin pools of obsidian malevolence, bore intoRhyland's essence, threatening to consume his soul with their bottomless cruelty—poisonous promises of power drip from Azrael's tongue, temptingRhylandto submit and shatter before him.

Yet, despite the relentless onslaught,Rhylandremains unbroken. Though his body may be battered and broken, a single spark of hope stubbornly refuses to be extinguished—the unwavering thought of me.Rhylandholds fast to memories that blaze as bright as a bonfire—my infectious laughter, tender touch, and spirit's unwavering strength.

Azrael's shadowy tendrils slither intoRhyland's mind, probing for vulnerabilities to exploit. But each insidious wisp is repelled by the dazzling recollections of our connection.Rhyland's mind is a tempest of fury, but he anchors himself to those lifelines of radiance.

Enter Amara, a walking contradiction of glamour and malevolence. She parades her toxic charade, determined to shred the last vestiges of his dignity—her wandering hands are an unwelcome invasion, eager to see him grovel at her feet. She feeds on his blood like a junkie chasing a high. The grotesque display turns my stomach inside out with revulsion. I can almost taste the bitterness ofRhyland's disgust, as acrid as stale coffee.

Starved.

Whipped.

Assaulted.

He was brutally beaten, over and over—tortured relentlessly by Amara's goons. It's as if the horrors are stuck on an endless loop, day in and day out, while I am off in another realm. And through it all, he clung to hope, never letting go.

Rhylandweathered each sadistic moment because he knew that if he shattered, it was not just his own soul on the line—it was the promise of the future we could build together. That fragile hope is the singular thread preventing him from surrendering to oblivion's seductive embrace. He endured the unimaginable torment for me, for us.

Rhylandwithdraws from my mind, and I lock eyes with him. He catches the tears I'm fighting to keep from spilling over.

I'll earmark how he just shared a memory with me through my mind for another time.

His voice drops to a harsh whisper, all torn up with emotion. "I never fucking lost hope," he rasps out. "I knew you'd come back—to me."

My heart clenches at the raw edge in his voice. His turmoil unfolds before me—a tapestry woven with threads of pain and defiance—and I feel it all as if it were my own.

Tears spill over my cheeks for him—for all he endured alone in that cold darkness for weeks.

My words tumble out, choked by my own crying: "I'm so…s-sorry," each syllable heavy with regret. "You shouldn't have had to go through that... because of me."

Rhylandsits up, the water sloshing over onto the floor at the sudden movement. His hand's slick and wet brings it up to cradle my cheek. "No," he says—voice solid as a rock. "Don't you go hauling that burden; none of this shitstorm is on you."

Despite my best efforts, my tears have a mind of their own—each one a reluctant salute to the battles he fought and the scars I couldn't shield him from.

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