“As I said, I was raped, and that doesn’t fully explain how I got these scars. To understand, I need to tell you my story from the beginning. My mother was one of the king’s human sex slaves, young and beautiful. When she ended up pregnant with his child – me – he knew she had to escape before I was born because his mate and my wretched stepmother, Jane, hadn’t conceived by then. Desperate, she fled into the night, leaving everything behind to give me a chance at freedom and to save me from Jane’s inevitable wrath if I were born in the castle.
For five precious years, we had a small taste of happiness, though always glancing over our shoulders. Then Jane finally tracked us down. She threw us into a dank, lightless cell, more tomb than prison. Every day, she visited to rain blows upon my mother’s wasting body, beating her till her once lovely face was mottled with bruises and blood. The guards took their turns with her as well, violating her in the vilest ways till she mercifully passed out from the agony.
As a small child, all I could do was clean her wounds with trembling hands and ragged strips of cloth, my tears mingling with her blood. I would curl up beside her on the filthy straw, trying to will some of my warmth and life into her broken form. This hellish existence was all I knew for years that felt like centuries.
When I was ten, one of Jane’s guards took a liking to me. The way his cold, piggish eyes followed me made my skin crawl. He asked Jane if he could have me, like I was a thing to be owned. Though she refused, he returned later in secret to rip me from my mother’s skeletal arms. She fought for me, tooth and nail, like a wildcat defending her only cub, but it was futile and cost her her life.
Even then, I wouldn’t submit to him. I kicked and clawed and bit, fighting with every last shred of my strength. In return, he whipped me until the lash flayed open my back until I was painted red with my own blood. The warm, wet heat of it was sickeningly familiar. Then, the true nightmare began. He used my own blood to…” He stops.
“No!” The word rips from my throat, raw and ragged. I spin to face Nickolas, my mouth hanging open in horror, eyes wide with disbelief.
“Yes,” he confirms, swallowing hard against the painful truth lodged in his throat.
Tears well up in my eyes, blurring my vision. From the moment he began his wrenching tale, they gathered like storm clouds, heavy with sorrow and empathy. Now, they spill over in relentless waves, tracking scalding trails down my cheeks. I can’t stem the flood any more than I can comprehend the depravity he’s endured.
The image of a small, innocent child – of Nickolas – witnessing and enduring such unspeakable things shatters something deep inside me. The idea of someone so young, so vulnerable, being subjected to that level of trauma and abuse is incomprehensible. Soul-destroying.
I weep for that little boy, for all that was ripped away from him, for the cruel, vicious marks carved into his skin and psyche. I weep for the bright light that must have been snuffed out in his eyes, for the gaping wounds that can never fully heal.
“I haven’t even gotten to the worst of it yet,” Nickolas murmurs, his voice a deep rumble beneath my ear. I stiffen, a fresh wave of dread crashing over me.
Turning my head around to meet his gaze, I search his face with red-rimmed eyes. “It gets worse?” I manage to choke out, my voice thick and wavering.
He gives me a sad, rueful smile. “Not much more so, but please, don’t cry for me, little one. I survived. I’m here now, with you.”
The tenderness in his expression only makes my heart ache more sharply. I wind my arms around his neck and shift closer, straddling his lap. I need to feel him, warm and vital and alive, not the ghost of the brutalized child he once was. Nickolas’s hands come to rest on my hips, his touch gentle but grounding.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out, fresh my tears filling my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Nickolas.”
“It’s okay, little one.” His arms tighten around me in a grounding embrace. “Do you want me to continue?”
I pull back just far enough to search his eyes, seeing the strength it takes for him to relive those horrors. I give a solemn nod, nestling back against his chest and winding my arms around his solid frame, determined to anchor him with my love and support as he reveals the rest of his haunting tale.
Nickolas’s voice is flat, almost detached, as he continues. “Jane was furious when she discovered my mother had died, but there was nothing she could do. The guard lied, claiming we had tried to escape, and that’s why he killed her. Jane just looked at me, battered and broken, and slapped me hard across the face. ‘I’ll wait for you to grow up, boy,’ she hissed. ‘Then you’ll take your mother’s place in every way.'”
A shudder runs through him at the memory, and I tighten my arms around his neck, trying to anchor him in the present.
“I didn’t see her again for five years, but that guard visited me every single night. No matter how hard I fought back, he would just laugh and whip me until I swear I could feel the lash scraping against my bare bones. By the time I turned fifteen, I was getting too old for his tastes. But I was the perfect age for Jane.”
Nickolas’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking beneath the stubble. “She came to me every day, inflicting all the pain and degradation she had wanted to visit on my mother. The fact that I had the gall to look like my father, the king, only made it worse. She beat me just like her guard did until I was more blood and bruises than skin. That was my waking nightmare, day after day until I turned eighteen.”
Tears burn my eyes as I listen, my heart cracking anew for the boy he was. I burrow closer, curling into his chest as if I can somehow shield him retroactively from the horrors he endured. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, my words muffled against his shirt. “I can’t even imagine… I’m just so sorry.” No wonder he hates Jane with such vehemence.
Nickolas says nothing, but I feel his lips brush the top of my head in silent acknowledgment.
After a moment, I ask softly, “Is that what caused the scars? The constant whippings?”
“Yes,” he confirms, a hard edge to his voice. “Especially since the whip was laced with oak tree venom.”
I shudder at the thought, knowing how the caustic sap of the oak tree venom can keep even the deepest wounds from healing cleanly. “How did you finally get out of there? What changed?”
Pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, I search his face. I can’t fathom how he went from that unrelenting hell to being crowned king.
A ghost of a smile flits across his lips. “That’s the next part of the story. I told you how I was getting too old to interest Jane’s guard anymore. I was still too weak to escape on my own, with her torturing me every day. But then the guard brought in a new victim – Eric, who was a human at the time.”
Nickolas’s eyes go distant, seeing into the past. “He threw Eric into the cell next to mine and started in on him, just like he had with me. I wanted to help, but I couldn’t even help myself. Then, one day, Eric figured out what I was. He started secretly feeding me his blood, letting me drink from his wrist when the guards weren’t looking. It gave me strength, letting me heal faster. And finally, I was strong enough. I broke us out, and we just ran. Ran until we both dropped, more dead than alive, at the foot of a cabin. My uncle’s cabin.”
Wonder and old pain war in his expression. “He took one look at me and knew exactly who my father was. He brought me back to the castle, to the king. I never told my father the truth of what his mate did to me. She threatened to tell the entire court how I’d been defiled, and I was so ashamed of what had happened, even though I knew it wasn’t my fault. So I kept quiet.”
I let out a shaky breath, trying to comprehend the enormity of what he’s shared. “Did you ever get revenge on them? Jane and her guard?”
Nickolas’s smile is cold and sharp as a blade. “Yes. Eric helped me kill the guard.”
“And your father?” I ask hesitantly. “Do you blame him at all for not protecting you?”
“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head. “He was eaten up with guilt when he found out I existed and what I’d been through. He never once made me feel lesser for being a bastard. If anything, some say he loved me even more than my half-brother, trying to make up for lost time.”
Relief loosens some of the tightness in my chest. At least he had that, after everything.
“Amelia.” Nickolas’s voice draws me from my thoughts. I lift my head to find him watching me intently, his gaze lit with grim determination. “I need to see your father, little one. And I know you can make that happen.”
My breath stalls in my lungs as I stare at my mate, stunned and uncertain. I have no idea how to respond to such an unexpected request, my mind reeling.