Chapter 243
Adrian Kael
“My only son… getting married. I’m feeling old,” he laughs lightly.
“Are you going to give me grandchildren?”
I let out a loud laugh.
“Grandchildren?” I repeat mockingly. “If you want one, adopt. I don’t
share my god’s attention with anyone, much less a child.”
He sighs, resigned.
“Fine. I’ll do everything exactly as you asked.”
I end the call and hand the phone back to the warden, who takes it
with trembling hands, avoiding my gaze.
Without saying anything else, I walk out of the room with firm steps.
My heart vibrates with anticipation. In a week, Magnus and I will be
free.
Free… and together.
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I walk to the door that leads to the courtyard and lean against the
wall, crossing my arms as I wait for him. My chest vibrates with
expectation; I can hardly contain my smile thinking about the news.
In a week, we’ll be out of here.
Anxiety consumes me from the inside, and a sting of doubt arises.
Maybe I was too hasty in mentioning the wedding? But I quickly
shake my head, pushing the thought away. He likes me–maybe he
doesn’t admit it yet, but he loves me. And if he loves me, then
everything is fine. Marriage is just the next logical step.
Seconds crawl by. Then, entire minutes pass. No sign of Magnus.
I furrow my brow, impatient.
“Where did you get to, love…”
I push off the wall and head toward the cafeteria. As I enter, the buzz
of the place irritates me instantly: inmates talking loudly, laughing,
and eating as if the world were normal. I roll my eyes, ignoring
everyone, as my eyes search for Magnus.
Nothing.
I run my tongue over my teeth, feeling the discomfort grow. I circle
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the hall, examining every corner, but he isn’t there. A restlessness
begins to grow inside me, a bad feeling.
I rush out and head down the hallway. As I pass the communal
bathroom, a metallic sound echoes from inside–something between
a muffled groan and the sound of something being dragged.
My heart hammers.
I throw the door open without thinking, with so much force that it
slams against the wall. And then time stops.
The air vanishes from my lungs.
Before me, hell: Magnus is lying on the floor. Inert. His face covered in blood, his body covered in marks and bruises. His uniform was torn, stained red, and dirty with grime. The boot prints stamped on his chest scream of the horror; they kicked him until they nearly
snuffed out his life.
A ringing fills my ears. The floor seems to spin. The whole world
becomes a blur.
I feel my chest tighten, my heart pounding out of rhythm. No air comes in, and my vision darkens at the edges.
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“L–Love…” The word comes out through sobs, trembling, broken.
“Baby…”
I fall to my knees beside him. My hands shake as they touch his
bloodied face. His skin is still warm. The blood, fresh. My throat
closes up, despair suffocates me, and tears burn even before they fall.
I place a finger under his nose, my entire body begging for a sign, any
sign. Then I feel a faint breath, almost non–existent.
Relief explodes inside me, tearing through my chest along with the
crying.
“Thank God…” I murmur, my voice failing, as I hug him carefully, as if
I feared he would crumble in my hands.
I pick him up in my arms with extreme care, and he lets out a groan of pain, even unconscious. Rage and fear mix’together–a storm about
to explode inside me.
I leave the bathroom with firm steps; every step to the cell feels
endless.
When I finally arrive, I lay him down carefully on the bed, adjusting him with all the tenderness possible. My heart is still racing out of
control, and my throat stings.
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I run my hand through his hair, brushing away the strands matted
with blood and sweat.
“I’m going to take care of you, love,” I murmur, my voice choked. “And
whoever did this… is going to pay dearly.”
I stand up and go to the shelf. I find the scissors, return to the
bedside, and begin to cut open the uniform with trembling hands. As
I reveal his skin, I see his body covered in deep purple bruises and
cuts.
I bite my lip hard, tasting the metallic flavor of my own blood; the
fury of someone having touched my Magnus burns within.
I take a deep breath; now is not the time to explode. First, the
wounds.
I strip him completely and throw the clothes on the floor. I run to the
shower, fill a bucket with warm water, and return with a clean towel. I
kneel beside the bed, dampen the cloth, and begin to clean him, slowly, measuring every movement to avoid increasing the pain.
He groans even while unconscious; the sound pierces my chest. I hold his arm gently and slide the cloth from his neck to his chest, removing dried blood and dirt. I wring the towel into the bucket and repeat the process over his abdomen, thighs, and groin.
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The water quickly turns murky; I change it without a second thought
and kneel back down. I wet the cloth again and clean his face. The
cuts on his lips require attention; his eye is already forming a dark
hematoma, and his cheek is starting to swell.
Every wipe cuts me inside, and I control my rage by clenching my
teeth. Restraining myself is difficult but necessary.
His back represents a problem: any movement makes the pain worse.
I look for a practical solution. I pull a clean sheet and, carefully, slide
the dirty one out from under him, protecting the mattress.
I support his shoulder and thigh, positioning his body with all my
care, and in a slow, coordinated effort, I roll him onto his side. He
groans loudly, feeling him suffer tears at my throat. With the towel
wrung out, I pass it along his spine and over his glutes, washing every
area until the skin looks less soiled.
I change the water once more–the bucket is too dark–and repeat the
cleaning on the other side. I toss the used towel on the floor and
remove the soaked sheet, replacing it with a fresh, dry one. I tuck the
bed with calm, settle his body, and finally turn him on his back, avoiding touching the most sensitive areas.
I sit on the floor, exhausted, my breathing heavy.
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I can’t stay still.
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Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
