Page 131 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“Reckless,” the Snake Charmer called as the music died and the snakes were removed. Roremar shot him a glare, not missing the use of that name now though he pretended not to know him earlier. “Tell Emmeline I hope she tracks down the Averian.”

The Snake Charmer left with a sly grin, and Roremar truly knew the meaning of revenge as he watched him go. But he’d deal with him later.

“Emmeline,” Roremar gasped, rushing forward. She stumbled toward him in a daze, hands latching on to his arms.

Heart in his throat, Roremar cupped her cheek. “Huntress?” he breathed.

When she finally blinked and turned her gaze to his, there was no light in her eyes. No thrill of performance as the other dancers bore. No hunger for the crowd’s ravenous attention.

Roremar had noticed that when Emmeline ventured too close to her past, she shut down, dissociating in the moment. But this vacant, broken stare was so much worse.

The woman in his arms was shattered.

Chapter Forty-One

Emmeline

“Emmeline,” Roremar said once they were back in the apartment. She was tucked in his lap, his voice sharp yet delicate, like the glass she’d kept around her nightmares had cracked and was being pressed softly—torturously—against her skin.

Roremar cradled her cheek with one hand, the other banding around her, and he tilted her face to his, but all Emmeline saw was blurs of fangs and blood, twinkling mystlights and devious grins. Gently, he lowered her to the bed beside him, but Emmeline flinched at the soft fabric against her skin.

“N-no,” she stuttered. “Bathtub.”

Roremar blinked at her, contemplating for only a moment before he stood again, Emmeline tight in his arms. The chains on her belt and beads dangling from her costume echoed like that glass breaking in the night, each chime making her flinch. Making her curve further into him.

“Bathtub,” she repeated as Roremar strode into the bathing chamber and the mystlight orbs flared to life, illuminating the white marble countertop and basin, the silver fixtures. It was all so pristine, unlike her.

She’d been tainted for a long, long time.

“I know. Bathtub, I promise,” Roremar whispered, propping her on the edge of the bathing tub and holding her upright with one arm as he turned on the tap.

There was barely a speck of dirt on her. He had to be confused by her demand. She would have been, too, if she didn’t feel the layer of oil coating her skin.

It isn’t real, she reminded herself.

But it felt so real.

“No,” she choked out when Roremar reached for one of the oil jars on the shelf over the bathing tub. She needed to be able to see beneath the surface and feel only pure water over her flesh. To assure herself.

It felt so real.

The thought ricocheted through her mind, and she shot to her feet, trembling hands trying to rip the clothes from her body. Her fingers snagged on her belt, and Roremar reached to help.

“I can do it,” she whispered, hurried and determined. “I can take care of it.”

“I know you can.” His voice was soft. Soothing. Enough that she paused, hands still gripping the beaded fabric around her waist. “I know you can take care of yourself, Emmeline. I know you’re able to do it all on your own. But right now, you don’t have to. Let me help.”

Those words, the gentleness of them and the desperation barely audible beneath, scratched at every scar she kept so long buried. She couldn’t fully understand what it meant to her. Not right now. But holding in a whimpering sob, she nodded.

It felt so real.

As Roremar helped her strip off the sheer scraps of fabric and threw them in the trash, it felt so real.

As he lowered her into the steaming water, eyes flicking absently around the basin, it felt so real.

As the silence stretched into something heavy and unbearable, it felt so real.

“I can leave if you need space,” Roremar finally said.