Chapter 2: Captor, Savior, Murderer (1/3) || Reyin

A coughing fit had my eyes tearing open, my throat scratchy once I calmed down enough to swallow. My stinging vision was hazy, requiring a few slow blinks to clear it— Pain.

I cried out and arched my back at the agonizing press of something textured against my stomach wound. Streaks of white cleared my vision while my hands flailed to grab ahold of something, anything, to squeeze my torment into. And when my palm registered something firm beside my waist, I grasped it tightly, grip tightening as the pressure against my wound intensified.

"I have to stop the bleeding, or you might die," came a quiet voice, not particularly deep, but the low timbre of it told me it belonged to a man.

My chest staggered on a heavy exhale, my body quaking through the immense pain rooted in my abdomen, and that same object I'd been holding went to my shoulder and pressed my body firmly against the solid bed I seemed to be on.

"...stop. It hurts…please," I feebly begged, my voice no more than a rasp.

I realized I had closed my eyes when I had to peel them open again, my lashes sticky with tears, and immediately I was met with bright green eyes clashing with the darkness of this room, hard like stone and so vividly colored that I was instantly transported back to the village I had grown up in and viewing the velvety petals of my favorite flower.

They inspired calmness in me. Comfort.

A pained breath dribbled past my lips as I dipped my curious eyes to the clothing the mysterious man before me wore. The lantern's flickering light acknowledged a black tunic and a red overcoat fitted at his waist with a wide black sash. Gold thread detailed his sleeves and cuffs, and round jewelry served as buttons along the left side of his coat.

But more striking than the gold were the ragged and bloodied tears in his clothing that exposed the silver tones beneath his white skin. There were no wounds to him—shockingly. Although I could not identify the person who had stabbed me, I did recognize the uniform the man wore as belonging to those who'd attacked my family's castle.

Panic widened my eyes and tore through my chest, taking hold of my heart and squeezing.

I slapped the man's hands away and tumbled off the bed, landing on the smooth wood floor with a harsh thud. I groaned deep from my chest and shuddered as pain rippled through me. My clothing stuck to me as blood gushed from my wound, enough to make me dizzy from the loss of it. Once I found myself on my feet—my balance faulty—I looked around the dimly lit residence for an exit.

Then, a hand came to my shoulder, and I whipped around, almost losing my balance entirely.

"Do not touch me," I snapped. I let the fear drive my steps backward until I was far enough away from the man that I could breathe properly.

He was affiliated with those dangerous men who'd terrorized the castle; assassins they very well could be if attacking the royal family was any indication. I withdrew another shaky step, dizzy but willing myself to remain standing. "Where am I? What is the state of my home?" I barked, but deep down, I felt I already knew.

I had witnessed the flames gnawing away at the castle's structures—the walls crumbling and the ceilings caving in. There was no way it could have survived. But what of everyone else? Had they all made it out alright?

The man cocked his head, and a few locs slipped from his elegant mass of midnight waves to curl seamlessly around his contrasting eyes. He studied me intricately. "Your home is ash," he revealed dryly, his tone a clear indication he had not a heart to feel sympathy for those he'd killed and made homeless.

"And my family?" My voice trembled against my will.

My family had always been unpleasant toward me, ashamed of my mere presence most days, which had never made any sense because they'd been the ones who decided to pluck me from my life in the village. However, I still helplessly hoped my dear family had survived.

The man gained another step, and I withdrew, my back pressing against a wall. My throat worked a swallow as the man approached, our heights tall and equal. He might have had a few inches on me. His crescent eyes flitted across my face almost fascinatedly, landing on the scar on my cheek that I'd gotten as a boy and flaring with indecipherable emotion.

It traveled from just beneath my left eye to the dove-like curve of my top lip. For it, I had always been the target of contempt. Called too hideous, too monstrous to be a Prince of the Avalon family. Many of the offensive comments had come from servants who appreciated having someone to look down on, and that had always broken my heart. I would have at least liked to have a good relationship with the people I was most alike to.

"What of my family," I repeated, my voice harder.

The man's eyes flickered to mine, narrowing slightly. "I believe you already know."

My chest squeezed with the threat of a sob that I swallowed down. "...did you—"

"I did," he confirmed, his quiet voice void of emotion. "Kill them, that is."

Lashes fluttering despondently, my heart ruptured like a vase under pressure.

The man studied me, something like curiosity painting strokes of silver in his eyes. "They were awful to you," he stated. How he knew that aroused questions in me because he was not native to this kingdom. If my assumption was correct. Had he been spying on my family's interactions before attacking?

"Yes…" I muttered, my throat tightening with emotion, "...and I loved them anyway."

The grief was hideous inside me, multiplying its potency and weighing down my body. I parted my lips, and my voice shook as I asked, "And the doctor?"

The man favored silence, his expression neutral while he observed me, and I could only believe the very worst. My legs gave out as the wicked sorrow hammered at my bones. The man's heavy hand came to my waist then, as if to catch me, and I violently slapped it away.

"Do not touch me," I snapped again, fire in my eyes.

His hand withdrew, but his eyes remained curious as I collapsed. I blinked rapidly to restrain the summoning tears. Then, my hand was over my mouth to prevent a climbing sob that would only have my body jerking with pain from the vibrations sent to my wound.

I realized then that there was no point in containing them.

Who was I without my family? Without my beloved doctor, who'd been more of a father to me than the King? Without a home to go to, where did my worth lay? It was pointless to keep the tears and blood in. I didn't wish to die, but what other option was there? There was nothing left for me. No one left.

I had done something to receive the wrath of God, and no one could save me.

The man retrieved supplies and the lantern from the bed and returned to me as naturally as a man who hadn't wronged me would. As if he hadn't ripped everything I had ever loved away from me. Hate and molten rage burned in my eyes as I watched the man's deft fingers untangling needles and thread. His straight nose twitched beneath my scrutiny. There was a mauve flush native to the tip of it.

"We can cauterize your wound, or I can suture it. Your decision," he quietly gave, gaze focused on his working hands.

I huffed incredulously, eyeing the man with what I hoped was enough hate to kill him. Although it was wicked to wish for someone's death, I felt passionately that way about him. My eyes soon recognized a small paring blade beside him, which he likely intended to use on me. I reached for it, and the man caught my wrist, considering me with neutral eyes.

"Is this what you want?" He gave my hand a mild shove—as though not trying to actually hurt me—and retrieved the knife. Then he bore into my eyes with that same curious look that appeared discreetly wary this close to him. "And what do you plan to do with it?"

"What do you think?" I spat. It was foreign to me, speaking to anyone this way. The tone felt bitter on my tongue, even as anger and grief tangled inside me.

The man tilted his head, studying me with loose interest. Then, with deft fingers, he flicked the blade around so the handle was being offered to me.

"Have at it," he said quietly. When I only sent him a cautious glare, he sighed and forced my hand open, placing the tool against my palm and curling my soot-covered fingers pointedly around it. Then he went on unraveling his tools. Unbothered. As though he did not believe I would strike him.

I should have. I certainly could have.

But would I?

My thumb grazed the cool and blunt end of the blade, and briefly, I wondered if the man's fingers against my skin had been cooler. They were strikingly cold like he'd bathed in winter's breeze before bringing me here.

It was he who had brought me here, right?

When the man lifted his gaze, our eyes caught. Something familiar brightened in the green that met me, and I looked away grimly. He'd asked if I would allow him to cauterize my wound. I hadn't answered, but that method of treatment was very traumatic.

My skin and surrounding tissue could be damaged in the process. Such a procedure should only be carried out by a professional. I could not perform it on myself, and I certainly didn't trust the man to.

Suddenly, my sticky clothing was being pulled away from my stomach, and I hissed. My hand flew to the man's shoulder and squeezed.

At the contact, the man's eyes met mine, a bit startled, before they returned to that neutral, almost mechanical gaze. It was like he'd trained his countenance to remain set that way. I snatched my hand away. The man, unaffected, paused to consider me, then merely took my hand—his long fingers curling delicately around my wrist—and returned it to his shoulder.

His eyes shone brighter, indecipherable with their emotion. "You can. Use me. If you'd like."

I recoiled as much as the wall pressing into my back would allow and retrieved my hand. "I would rather cut my hand off than touch you willingly."

Unaffected, he said in response, "I will have better access to you if you lie down."

"Why are you helping me?" I asked skeptically, doubting this man didn't have ulterior motives. "Why not leave me to bleed out?" Why not neglect me, like everyone else?

He didn't answer, instead turning the valve on the lantern to increase the flame's brightness. "Lie down."

"No," I rebelled. This man's shoulders were broad, yes. And, yes, he was lean and tall with modest muscle, likely not much more than my own. But if we were to fight, the odds of either of us claiming victory were equal. So I felt no reason to submit to my captor, who I did not trust would—

The man pulled on my leg, sliding it out from underneath me, and I fell onto my back on the hard floor. A broken moan left me as I turned on my side and curled in on myself. Sharp throbs of pain echoed throughout my body.

CREATORS' THOUGHTS
_Haven

I hope you guys aren't expecting a pushover MC, because while Reyin can be soft and compliant, he is also stubborn and fierce when he needs to be :). Haha...sometimes too stubborn for his own good.

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