Page 87 of The Musician and the Monster

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t think—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Malik said. “Sorry for your…ribs? What did I hit?”

“I deserved it.” Something splashed into the water.

“True,” Malik replied.

The slip and slide of fabric reached her ears, but still, Ceridwen refused to look, giving Drystan the privacy he needed.

A gasp caught in Ceridwen’s throat as Malik took her hand and raised it to his lips. “Good night, brave Ceridwen.”

With a wink, he turned to leave. Boots clicked down the stairs as he excused himself from the tower.

“I-I should go too.” Ceridwen turned to the stairs, prepared to slink away.

“Please stay.” The softness in Drystan’s words nearly broke her heart.

Her feet wouldn’t move. They’d rooted themselves to the ground near the rounded section of wall concealing the staircase.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and turned to the beckoning voice. He sat shirtless on his bed. A dusting of dark hair coated the hard planes of his chest, a fine trail disappearing down into the waistband of the dark trousers he’d donned. He’d hastily washed much of the blood away, leaving a sheen of dampness on his skin. Scars marred his chest as well as his arms. Self-inflicted? She didn’t know, but their shape and thickness were reminiscent of the ones she knew he’d created himself.

His scars told a story with as much heart and emotion as any song. Some marked his fall, others his suffering, yet the newer ones paved his path to vengeance.

“All right.”

He rose and crossed the room to her.

She resisted the urge to step away, not for fear of his monster. No, not that. The tightness in her chest came from something within herself, an all-consuming desire.

He knelt before her, taking her hand in his.

“I’m so sorry. Tonight I…I could have killed you. Again. And I promised myself, I promised I wouldn’t—” His words cut off as she placed her other hand upon his head. He gazed up at her, eyes glassy and pained. “Ceridwen.”

“Drystan.”

He held her gaze. Vulnerable. Open. “I want your forgiveness, but I don’t deserve it.”

“It was my choice.” Staying. Helping him. And this. She knelt, taking his face in her hands.

“Ceri—”

Her kiss captured his words. Soft. Tender. Acceptance of his apology. A whispered promise.

Their breaths mingled as he pulled back. Drystan stared her down, an unfamiliar glimmer in his eyes. “We…um…”

A sheepish smile broke out over her features before she bit her lip, holding it in.

“We should get you cleaned up.” He lifted her off the floor and carried her to his bed.

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach, a whole swarm of them that continued even when he set her on the edge and stepped away to retrieve a pitcher and fresh cloth.

She tugged the bloody sections of the dress until they bunched in front of her, away from the fine coverings on the bed. Her backside clung to the edge of the mattress. One inch farther, and she’d fall onto the floor.

Ceridwen willed away the heat rising to her cheeks and pooling deep within her, but it refused to obey, especially as Drystan returned with the water and cloth. He frowned at the stains as he gently washed away the blood on her skin. “I’ll have the dress replaced.”

“It’s not a problem. I have many others, thanks to you.” More than she’d ever had. Having one ruined was no great loss, though it did make her heart ache to see something so fine tarnished. She hadn’t considered its welfare when she’d gone to Drystan’s monster. She’d barely considered her own.

“You told me you couldn’t sing. Or didn’t sing?” His brows scrunched as he worked. “But your voice is lovely.”

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