Page 71 of The Hellkeeper

Never by the man standing beside me.

I shift on my feet, the raw skin burning with every step. Damien notices immediately and sweeps me into his arms. My body melts against him, and I breathe him in. Gunpowder. Smoke. Blood. Rage. Not even a trace of the scent that used to cling to him. He’s nothing but war now. A war he waged for me.

The door to our room creaks open, and it’s dimly lit. We step inside. Just the two of us. A woman who’s survived Hell. And the man who burned it to the ground for her.

Damien kneels at my feet, and something inside me cracks. He’s a beast, a demon, the most terrifying man I’ve ever met, but he kneels. For me.

I don’t know who in that village stripped me of my shoes, but it doesn’t matter. They’re dead now. All of them. He lifts my foot, his hands shaking. He stares at the blisters with a haunted, anguished look on his face. And then he presses his lips to my feet, kissing them like he can take the pain into himself. He’s breaking, unraveling, falling apart right in front of me.

It’s not hygienic. It’s reckless. But I don’t tell him to stop. Because I know he’s barely holding on, and I’d give him anything he needs at this moment. He’s just as traumatized as me.

He brushes the hem of my dress and pulls it over my head. It leaves me in nothing but my bra and underwear. He carries me to the bathroom and sets me on the sink, his eyes frantically scanning every inch of me. His whole body is tight with rage. His eyes are crazed. There’s no other term for it. Absolutely unhinged.

I glance down at myself, even though I don’t need to. I feel every bruise, every burn. My feet are blistered, had he come any later, they would have been charred. The flames only licked at them because he saved me. He came just in time.

My ribs are purple. The rocks they threw gravitated toward them more than anything else, but I don’t think they’re broken. Just bruised. My stomach is a sick blend of green, blue, and yellow, the colors of a dead thing rotting, thanks to the punch that now-dead man landed on me.

My hair is tangled, my scalp raw from where they dragged me. There’s a wound above my eyebrow, and dried blood clings to the side of my face. And then there’s my skin, as red as a lobster courtesy of my mother.

My mother.

It only just registers.

She’s dead.

And I don’t feel anything.

Before today, I would have mourned. But from the first slap, from her words, from her choosing a bunch of stupid stories over her own daughter, she was just like every single other person in that village to me.

I’m pulled from my thoughts by his breathing. It’s getting worse, harsher, quicker. He’s hyperventilating. Murder rolls off him.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hollow. “I want to go back.”

“What?”

“I want to go back.” His jaw flexes. His throat bobs. “I want to bring them back. I want to make them breathe again, just so I can kill them all over.”

I should be horrified, tell him to calm down, tell him he’s not thinking straight. But I don’t. Because his words warm my heart.

This man has successfully dragged me into the filth with him, into the darkness, into evil. I’m as much of a villain as he is. But being a villain doesn’t feel too bad with him by my side. I’m elbows deep in sin, and I don’t ever want to leave.

His heart pounds against my hands.

“It’s done,” I whisper. “It’s over.”

“No.” He shakes his head violently. “No one marks you but me.” His trembling hands trace my skin. “You’re mine. Your body, your skin, all mine.” His forehead drops to my thigh. “And I let them touch you.”

I caress his hair, trying to soothe the storm raging inside him. “You came,” I murmur. “That’s all that matters.”

“Not soon enough,” he chokes out. “Not before they put their fucking hands on you. Not before they hurt you. I should’ve killed them before they even thought about it.”

I tug on his hair, pulling his head back so I can see his face. His eyes are wild, and he looks pale.

I smile, just barely. “And what would you have done, hmm? Killed the whole village the moment I was born?”

His lips part, and he doesn’t answer.

Because he’s thinking about it.

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