Marked By A Dragon

Authors Note: This chapter was particularly difficult for me to write, and I want to give you a gentle heads-up—it delves deeply into topics of mental health and SA trauma. Please prioritize your well-being, take breaks when you need to, and always remember that you matter.

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"You have got to be kidding me," I said flatly, my frustration laced into every word. "You didn't even try to barter with her."

Zaydon's expression shifted into a series of varying emotions— mostly annoyance flashed briefly before giving way to pure exhaustion, the kind that pressed into his features like a permanent shadow. Then, as if flipping a switch, his face settled into a mask of quiet resolve. It all happened so fast that if I'd blinked, I would've missed it.

The guilt stirred in my chest because he really did look exhausted. I tried to ignore the feeling, but it sat like a brick in my stomach.

"Would you rather sleep out in the wilds and lose a few toes when winter sets in, sweetheart?" His voice was soft, low, and too tired to bite with its usual sharpness. He brushed past me, his shoulder lightly touched mine, and the heat of him lingered even as he stepped further into the room, leaving behind the faint scent of leather, sweat, and earth. He dropped our bags onto the wooden floor with a heavy thud, the sound reverberating in the small room, and then, without a word, he reached up and began undoing the buckles on his leather chest piece. The creak of the straps and the soft jingle of buckles were now the only sounds filling the room as he unfastened them, the worn leather giving way easily to his practiced hands.

I shut the door behind me and leaned against it, arms crossed, as I watched as he slid the chest piece over his head and set it down with a muted thunk. Once the chest piece was off, it revealed that his sweat-dampened tunic clung to his back, highlighting the clear tension in his shoulders as he moved on to the smaller buckles at his wrists. He worked methodically and with practiced ease, unstrapping the forearm guards and dropping them with soft thuds onto the floor.

I realized I was staring and forced myself to focus. 

"You didn't even ask if there might be another place with two rooms," I said, trying to rein in my frustration.

His fingers stilled briefly before resuming their task. He didn't look at me. "Small villages like this don't have options, princess," he said quietly. "Be grateful this one has an inn at all." His tone wasn't sharp—it was weighted as if arguing was just another burden he couldn't carry right now. "If you need privacy, I'll stand outside the door. Problem solved."

The arm guards hit the floor, followed by the soft rustle of fabric as he worked his gloves off. He flexed his fingers briefly before unbuckling the lightweight greaves around his shins. The metal clasps clicked softly, and the dull thuds of each greave hitting the floor sounded slower and heavier as his exhaustion clearly grew.

I bit the inside of my cheek, the guilt returning and mixing with frustration. I knew I was being difficult. I just needed space—needed time to process everything without him here. I couldn't do that with him so close. I didn't want to be more vulnerable than I had to be.

"Problem not solved. I don't—"

The last piece of his armor dropped to the floor, and before I could finish my protest, he turned, and in three long strides, he closed the distance between us. His movements weren't rushed or angry—just steady like he was too tired for hesitation. My back pressed against the door, the wood hard against my back. His body was warm, too warm, radiating heat that hit the exposed parts of my body. The smell of him—leather, steel, and something earthy filled my nostrils and pooled heat in my lower belly.

His hands came up, and he slowly placed his palms flat against the door on either side of my head. As he leaned in closer, his breath fanned across my cheek, warm and steady, as if even breathing took effort now.

I lifted my gaze to meet his, and the intensity in his eyes made my breath catch. The green of his irises swirled with flecks of amber and flashes of red. The pupils in his eyes were blown wide and dark. The red in his eyes flickered like a candle, not feral and uncontrolled as bit usually was when I could see it but more watchful—protective even.

"Princess," he murmured, the word softer this time, less a title and more of a plea. "I need rest. You need rest. This room is all the owner had left, and I took it. End of story." His voice dropped, exhaustion thickening each word, but there was also something gentler beneath it. "No ifs, no buts. Sit down on one of those beds while I run a bath for you. And if you think I'm letting you out of my sight for long periods after what happened, you're wrong."

I swallowed thickly, the words sinking into me. There was no retort, no clever response waiting on my tongue. Maybe it was the exhaustion weighing down both of us. Or the way he softened his tone like he cared even through his weariness. Or maybe it was just that, for once, I needed someone to take control when I was feeling like internally and physically I had none right now.

"Okay," I whispered, barely more than a breath.

His eyes softened briefly—just enough to let me catch the flicker of relief and perhaps some surprise as well. He exhaled and stepped back, giving me room to breathe again. Without a word, I moved to the nearest bed and sat down, the mattress sagging under me. The rough fabric of the blanket brushed against my fingertips as I traced its stitching, grounding myself and trying not to feel awkward in being so compliant.

Zaydon watched me for a moment. His expression was unreadable, but the way his lips parted, like he wanted to say something but couldn't find the words, tugged at something inside me. He closed his mouth, shook his head, and turned toward the bathroom. His boots made soft, deliberate thuds against the wooden floor as he moved around, and then the sound of running water followed, filling the silence.

He returned briefly, kneeling by one of our bags and pulling out a small satchel. His movements were slow and careful, as though the last bit of energy he had was being rationed, and then, without meeting my gaze, he disappeared back into the bathroom, leaving me with the hum of water and my thoughts.

I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and let out a slow breath. The warmth from where he'd stood still clung to my skin—stubborn, lingering. This wasn't how I usually felt when he was near. It was different. More... intimate? Everything about it felt strange. Normal had slipped away from us long ago, but the way he'd done something so simple, so quietly meaningful, felt right—and that unsettled me.

"It's ready if you want to get in while it's still hot. I'm going to—"

I jumped when he spoke, the suddenness snapping me out of my daze.

He frowned, his gaze softening as he studied me. "You okay? Why did you jump like that?"

I blinked, shaking off the fog in my head. "Fine," I replied quickly, standing and moving past him toward the bathroom door. My voice sounded shaky, even to me.

At the doorway, I paused, resting one hand on the frame. "Thanks for the bath," I said quietly. I tried to sound casual, but the words felt strange, almost foreign, as they left my mouth. They hung awkwardly in the space between us—a reminder of how far we'd grown apart over the years.

But today, I owed him a thank you because he had been everything I needed. I couldn't bring myself to be cruel when all he'd given me was patience and kindness—things I wasn't used to receiving.

"Anytime... sweetheart," he murmured, his voice warm and heavy with emotions I wasn't prepared to dissect right now. He paused, then added, "I'll be gone a moment to write and send out a letter to Riyal. I won't be long."

My heart twisted and tightened in a way it shouldn't have. I nodded and watched him quietly leave the room before I shut the bathroom door behind me. The solid click echoed, and I leaned back against the wood, eyes closed.

Why couldn't he be a dick? It would've made things so much easier.

But no—he had to be thoughtful. As if the universe enjoyed mocking me, I finally noticed what he'd brought into the bathroom. Steam rose from the large clawfoot tub, curling into the air like soft whispers. Herbs and oils floated on the surface of the water, their scents wrapping around me. Lavender, chamomile, roses, and jasmine filled the room, the floral mixture soothing but inescapable.

I sighed, telling myself firmly, A bath and a day of attentiveness change nothing. Even if this whole day could be the start of what changed everything.

Shrugging off his cloak, I let it slip to the floor, followed by the shirt beneath it. The fabric clung to my skin, warm and damp from the hours spent moving through the village, gathering what we needed. Shedding the cloak felt like a release, like the satisfying relief of unlacing a corset at the end of a long day in the castle, when the tension finally gave way and breath came easier.

Slowly, I dipped one foot into the water. The heat kissed my skin, sending tingling waves of relief through me. A low groan escaped my lips before I could stop it. I slid my other foot in and lowered myself until the water embraced me completely, cradling me in its warmth. A soft sigh slipped out, the tension in my body loosening as if the bath were slowly unraveling every knot I had tied around myself.

I leaned back and let myself sink, dipping my head beneath the surface. The warmth soaked into my scalp as my red hair floated around me like lazy, drifting veins, swirling through the fragrant bathwater. The world above muted into a distant hum, leaving me weightless and untethered. For a moment, I allowed myself to exist there—in that quiet, underwater cocoon—where nothing could reach me.

When I resurfaced, I rested against the edge of the tub, closing my eyes and breathing deeply. The scent of lavender and something sweet lingered in the steam, soothing me further. For the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn't braced for the next disaster or how what mask I needed to wear for whom.

I'd never admit this to him out loud, but he had done more than just run a bath—he had created a space where I could let go, if only for a little while. The thought made my heart ache for him, warming me in a way it hadn't in so long. Even if I didn't exactly want that feeling, it was there, undeniable, pressing against my chest. At least he wasn't here to see my blush or hear how fast my heart was pounding. Because right now, it felt loud enough to fill the entire room.

He wasn't here.

It might only be for a moment, but still—I was truly alone for the first time since it happened.

But then, like a stone dropped into still water, the warmth of the moment cracked.

I was alone.

The realization hit me hard, sharper than any slap. My breath hitched as the word echoed through me.

Alone. Vulnerable.

I had wanted this, hadn't I? I had believed I could process my trauma like some kind of machine and move on. Like I could face it, clean and methodical, and leave it behind me. So why did it feel like I could barely breathe? Why did it feel like I was porcelain, shattering after falling from a tower?

The safety I had felt moments ago slipped through my fingers like sand in an hourglass, leaving only the rapid flashes of memory and fear. The steam, once soft and comforting, now sat too tightly in my lungs, and the soothing silence that had once been my refuge shifted into something darker—something that reminded me of how dangerous silence could be, of how dangerous being alone had been before. 

My fingers twitched as phantom sensations resurfaced, crawling over my skin like ghosts couldn't shake: hands where they shouldn't have been, grabbing and entering my body, and tearing at my clothes. Constant pawing at my body and forcing compliance. The fear from the memory felt as real as the moments it had happened in, the way my voice and body had failed me when I needed it most.

I pressed my palms against the sides of the tub, gripping the edge as if I could anchor myself there through sheer will. But the walls seemed to close in all around me. 

"Breathe," I told myself, but the word was damn useless when my body.

The red strands of my hair still floated around me, but now they reminded me of something else—something bleeding out, something slipping away.

I tried to hold on, to remind myself that I was safe—that Prince Darrin wasn't here, that Zaydon might be gone from our tavern room, but he was still nearby. I wasn't completely alone, not really. But that word—safe—felt like a lie, distant and hollow. Because safety wasn't something I trusted anymore.

And for the first time since it happened, that thought made me understand why being alone now terrified me. 

Because when no one else was around, it meant I couldn't hide from it. I couldn't bury the truth beneath my anger or the endless list of things that needed to be done. I couldn't distract myself with survival.

When I was alone, I had to face it. I had to remember what it felt like to protect myself.

Except I had failed to protect myself.

And that failure—the weight of it—pressed down on my chest and threatened to crush me. A different kind of tightness bloomed in my chest, and my breath came faster, shallower, and uneven. Panic seemed to wrap around my chest like a boa ready to consume its prey. I clutched at my bare skin as if I could physically force myself to calm down.

Slowly, I sat up, my breath hitching as I stared down at the surface of the water. Flowers floated lazily on top, their fragrance meant to soothe me, but now they just felt like an unwanted reminder of how fragile this peace had been and it just made me angry and irritated. I swiped them away with trembling fingers, scattering them across the bath water. Beneath them, the bruises between my legs appeared—pigmented, raw, and cruel reminders of everything I had been trying to suppress.

My fingers traced them softly, skimming over the patches of tender skin. I trembled as I touched the evidence of what had been done to me, as if acknowledging it made it more real. A lot of emotions took their place inside me that I had to focus on identifying some: anger that burned, sadness that felt suffocating, and fear that coiled deep in my gut, and refused to let go.

Then, a single drop hit the surface of the water, sending tiny ripples outward, distorting the bruises.

It was a tear?

And once I recognized it for what it was I couldn't stop the rest followed. They came fast, hot, and unstoppable, sliding down my cheeks and falling into the water. I didn't try to stop them. For once, I didn't want to. Instead, I lay back against the tub, letting the heat soak into me as the tears continued to flow, unchecked and unrelenting.

Slowly, I dipped my head beneath the surface until the water consumed me completely.

Silence surrounded me, muffled and heavy, the world above fading into nothing but distorted echoes. The swirling herbs and flowers that floated around me—meant to calm and soothe—felt cruel in their softness, a mocking contrast to the storm raging inside me. My chest ached, twisted tight with everything I couldn't say, with every scream I had swallowed and buried too deep.

I couldn't hold it anymore.

I opened my mouth and let out a scream, raw and unfiltered. The sound, muted beneath the water, wasn't meant for anyone else to hear. Pure agony, sorrow, and rage tangled together, crashing against the walls of my ribs until the scream bled out of me in waves.

When my lungs began to burn for air, I finally resurfaced, gasping quietly as I pulled my legs up to my chest. The water rippled around me, carrying the scattered flowers in slow, lazy circles. My quiet sobs broke into the air, soft but sharp as they escaped from my chest and out my mouth. I pressed my face against my knees, wrapping my arms tightly around them as if holding myself together could stop me from falling apart entirely.

But these tears were different.

They weren't like the ones I'd cried with Zaydon, when he had held me after I had woken up. In that moment, he had cradled the broken pieces of me, creating a space where I could fall apart safely. Those tears had been controlled—manageable. I had cried, knowing I could find my way back to solid ground because he was there to catch me when I did.

But these tears weren't the same kind.

They were raw, merciless, and indifferent to whether I could pull myself back together once they started falling. They weren't born from anger or the hunger for revenge or mourning. They didn't carry promises of retribution or bloodshed.

They were just tears.

Tears I had needed to cry. And this time, I let them be exactly what they were—no more, no less. I let it be messy, unfiltered, and filled with whatever emotion they wanted to be.