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I gasped, glancing up to the painting above his head. The man in shadows wasn’t simply her executioner. He was her beloved, Jude’s father. Tears pricked my eyes, realizing the extent of Jude’s grief. Jude and I shared the same feeling of abandonment, though his outweighed my own.
“And what happened to you?” I asked, voice breaking.
“Me? Danté sold me into slavery to a Celtic war party not long after. I was twelve years old, on the cusp of manhood. Again, that probably seems young to you, I’m sure, but then I would’ve been nearly a man. I was big for my age, so I was summarily sold into fighting another man’s battles as another man’s property.”
His lips compressed. I knew this was all he would tell me for now. My heart ached—for him, for myself.
“Jude, I’m—”
His gaze locked on me—intense and burning. Nothing I wanted to say could possibly come out of my mouth.
Jude, I’m sorry. Sorry for you. Sorry for me. I’m broken. I’m furious that you couldn’t save me. I hate you for it. I need you to hold me. I want you in the worst kind of way, but I’m terrified to let another man touch me. I’m falling into a dark place, and I don’t want to go. Please, don’t let me go.
Jude reached out slowly, hands gripping my waist in a gentle hold, and pulled me across the floor to him. Barricaded between his legs and arms, he buried his head in my hair, resting his forehead against my shoulder, and I felt…safe. My heart quieted.
I’d been in Jude’s arms many times at this point, but I hadn’t felt the gentleness of his touch, not like this. His hands fisted in my hair and the back of the sweatshirt, clutching me to him. No words were needed. He knew my soul-deep anguish.
I wrapped an arm across one shoulder, cupping the back of his head to cradle him against me. We didn’t say anything but simply held each other for some time. When he pulled back, he wore an unreadable expression, everything hidden once again. He traced his thumb along my cheekbone before pulling both hands into his lap and looking at them. I held them palms down.
Dried blood caked in brown splotches and scratches on both hands. Rough abrasions with skin scraped clean off from the tip of his pinky fingers all along the outer edge of both hands to his wrists. Knuckle bones exposed white on the middle and forefingers. I flipped them. A gash ran along the fleshy part of his left palm.
“Let’s get this cleaned up,” I said.
In the bathroom, he ran his hands under the water, still silent.
“Where’s your medical kit, that one you used for my stitches?”
“Bottom cabinet,” he said, scrubbing his hands clean.
I found it and opened it up, searching for gauze or bandages or something. Jude dried his hands on a towel, then slid the kit closer to him on the counter. I watched as he took the stitching needle and thread and, without anesthetic, closed up the gash on his palm with seven perfectly spaced stitches.
“That doesn’t hurt?” I asked as he snipped the ends expertly. I realized then he moved with the deft swiftness of an expert who’d done this countless times.
Having set aside the stitching tools in the kit, he fixed dark eyes on me, the whites now showing but no sparks of amber in the irises. The air was heavy with too many things said and too many unsaid.
“Genevieve, you do realize I would never jeopardize your safety. For any reason.”
It wasn’t a question.
“Yes,” I replied honestly.
“He won’t be able to soul-sift you again,” he said, holding my gaze.
“Why not?”
“He may have some power over us with the blood casts, but I have connections of my own, more powerful than him. He’llnever—listen to me—neverbe able to soul-sift you again.”
“There’s a way to keep him from soul-sifting me.” My voice quivered with an accusation. He answered my question before I could ask it.
“Yes. I didn’t think it would be necessary to go to such extremes. My protection cast should’ve been enough. But I—” He caught my gaze in the mirror. Pain bracketed his eyes and mouth.
“But what, Jude?”
He leaned sideways against the counter. “Danté could never break through my cast of protection before. He was never strong enough to beat me.”
“But he is now,” I added, unable to hold my tongue. The truth was that his opponent had bested him. He’d underestimated Danté’s strength, and his error had cost me dearly. But while Danté had invaded my heart and soul with his malevolent essence, he hadn’t taken me in every way. My Vessel power made sure of that.
Jude gripped the edge of the counter with one hand, white-knuckled. “Apparently. But there are others stronger than him.”
