Page 98 of Scourged

Chapter 38

Andrian had always prided himself on being emotionless. On locking everything away so squarely behind a block of ice, leaving only his rage and apathy free.

Then, a dark-haired woman had stepped into his life, melting that ice and uprooting everything about himself he’d held dear. She had become the thing he valued most. It didn’t matter what he felt, or what he did, or who he was. As long as it was all for her.

But he’d seen those scars on her back. Once smooth, glowing skin, now marred with deep rivets of torn flesh. Only a wicked weapon could cause those—an iron-tipped whip, wielded with the intent to cause maximum pain and destruction.

“Who the fuck did that to you?”He could still hear the anger and rage and fear ringing in his voice, like a nightmare he couldn’t shake.

But it wasn’t nearly as awful as her answer.

“You did.”

He hadn’t thought it possible to hate himself more than he did.

He was so very, very wrong.

Three days had passed since those simple words drifted through the air back to him, falling from Mariah’s lips like shards of ice. Three days, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept or bathed. He was still in those secluded rooms, far away in a seldom-used guest wing of the palace, a forced isolation that had quickly become self-imposed.

At least he’d had time to grab the most important of his belongings. Which, of course, meant he’d been able to snag his stash of liquor from his rooms.

Andrian’s head thumped against the wall behind him as he swirled the glass of whiskey. He tracked the streaks left on the cloudy glass before lifting it to his mouth, dumping the contents down his throat. It burned, and he grimaced, but he reveled in the pain and the immediate numbness that followed.

The whiskey was a peaty blend, aged and distilled in Sacale, just south of Verith and nestled in the Attlehon Mountains on the coast. It was his favorite, and he’d been hoarding bottles of it each time he saw a new shipment arriving in the market district.

He was a miserable fucking idiot most of the time, but at least he was smart enough for that. Leaning forward on the couch, he refilled his glass from the half-empty bottle on the table, vision swimming slightly.

His world was blurred, fuzzy, dulled. It was the only way he could tolerate … everything.

He was sure he’d eaten. He must have—too many days had passed, and he wasn’t dead yet.

He just didn’t remember. Just as he couldn’t remember his hands lifting that whip, couldn’t remember the way he’d scourged her back. He couldn’t remember any of the pain he knew she’d suffered at his unworthy hands. All he remembered was unending darkness, flashes of malevolent nightmares bursting through his mind each time he closed his eyes.

Andrian tried to recover those lost memories. Every night, he would lie awake, peeling back the layers of his subconscious, trying desperately to see through his eyes while he’d been locked away. But it was as if they simply didn’t exist; his memories were only of that lightless prison, the occasional flash of color peppering his dreams.

It was like the events happening inthisworld were done by another entity, someone whose memories Andrian had no access to because they never belonged to him.

He didn’t know if he should be thankful … or terrified.

A part of him wished he could go back to forgetting, to fall back into the void of despair he didn’t deserve to be rescued from.

Andrian raised the now-full glass back to his lips, movement a little jilted, and was about to take a sip when a booming knock rattled the door to the quaint room.

His eyes narrowed on the door. He sat still for five, ten heartbeats. Maybe he’d imagined it.

When there was only silence, he shrugged and lifted his glass again.

The knock rang out a second time.

Andrian let loose a low growl. “Go away.”

Someone shuffled on the other side of the door, and the handle twisted. The door swung wide, and Drystan spilled into the space, his golden shoulder-length hair slightly rumpled. His aureate eyes blazed as he took in Andrian and the room, nose wrinkling in disgust.

Honestly, he was being dramatic. Andrian didn’t think it was that bad in here. The asshole needed to keep his judgment to himself.

“Good to see you’re still alive.” Drystan’s voice was dry and flat, carrying no traces of amusement.

Andrian grunted. “I said,” he growled before taking another sip of the fiery liquor. “Go thefuck away.”

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