Shatter Me Twice

XI

RHEA
A crack of thunder shattered the stillness, rolling across the sky like a roar from the heavens. It was night now, a deep, pitch-dark night with nothing but the moon's pale light filtering through the thick canopy above, casting eerie shadows that seemed to dance around me. The cold rain began to fall in heavy drops, striking my face like icy needles. I felt the wetness on my skin, first a few drops, then more, sliding into my eyes as I forced them open, its metallic taste pooling in my mouth.

It was only a brief shower, a momentary cleansing from the sky, as if the heavens themselves couldn't bear to look at me for too long. And then it was gone, just like that. The rain stopped, leaving me alone again in the chilling silence. I wasn't dead yet.

Why wasn't I dead yet? Was I destined to suffer even more?

Hours must have passed since the arrow had torn through my back. Was it my wedding day already? I'd left the palace just a day before my wedding, full of excitement, eager to see Lady Iren one last time. Had they sent a search party for me? Were they even looking?

I felt my breath catch, shallow and ragged, every inhale sending fire through my chest. I was still alive, but barely. What remained of me? Why did I cling to this fragile thread of life? Earlier, I had run with all my might to save myself, to escape death's grasp, but now... now I wished it would take me. The fear of him returning, the dread of someone else finding me, someone worse—what could be worse than being left here to die? My fate was decided, wasn't it? Why couldn't I just go now?

My body was so cold, shivering uncontrollably. I was soaked through, my clothes heavy with rain and blood, and my skin felt stiff, like ice had formed over every wound. I tried to move, to fight through the pain, to at least sit up, but every muscle resisted, screaming in agony. If I pushed any harder, I knew I would snap, that whatever fragile hold I had on life would break.

Then, through the darkness, a light flickered—a small, orange glow, the light of a fire. My heart gave a flutter of fear and hope mixed together, a frantic dance in my chest. I didn't know what to feel. What could be worse than lying here, helpless and broken? I closed my eyes, willing death to take me, willing myself to let go, to surrender. But no.

A hand brushed against my forehead, gently moving the wet strands of hair from my face. The touch was warm, familiar. My breath caught in my throat, and for a moment, I felt as if I was dreaming. I knew that touch—I'd felt it a hundred times before, on my cheek, my shoulder, my back.

"Iyan," I whispered, my voice barely a rasp. I used the last of my strength to call his name, forcing my eyes open, blinking through the blur to see his face. He was kneeling before me, his hands cupping my face, and his eyes—those deep, dark eyes—were filled with something between shock and relief.

He had found me.

I couldn't believe it. Iyan had found me. A wave of warmth spread through my chest, filling me with a strength I didn't know I had left. I managed to lift my hand, trembling and weak, to rest it over his. Tears welled up in my eyes, spilling over, and for a moment, we just stared at each other, neither of us speaking. He looked as if he was searching for something in my face, something he could not find.

I felt the fear that had gripped my heart loosen its hold. Iyan was here—my Iyan. All the terror, the pain, the cold... it seemed to melt away in that instant. I closed my eyes, letting the tears flow, feeling a strange sense of peace settle over me. Whatever happened next, I would face it with him by my side. I felt safe, relieved, and let myself relax into the comfort of his presence.

Then came the pain. Sharp, sudden, like fire tearing through my body.

My eyes flew open, my breath catching in my throat as I felt the cold steel slide into my side. Blood surged up, filling my mouth with its metallic taste, choking me. I looked at him, my eyes wide, unbelieving. His face, so close to mine, was calm, almost serene. His hand gripped the hilt of the knife, and I could feel the blade twisting inside me.

"Iyan..." I choked, my voice broken, blood bubbling at my lips. Tears streamed down my cheeks, but they were different now—no longer tears of relief, but of betrayal, of shock, of incomprehensible hurt. I wanted to scream, to ask him why, but my voice failed me. I could do nothing but look at him, my hand weakly gripping his wrist, trying to understand.

He pushed the blade deeper, and I felt it tear through me, felt my body convulse with the pain. The world around me dimmed, the edges of my vision turning black. He pulled the knife out, and then, with a calmness that chilled me to my very soul, he plunged it back in again.

My mouth opened in a silent scream, blood spraying from my lips. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. I couldn't feel anything but the burning, searing pain and the cold gaze of his eyes staring into mine.

I kept searching his face, looking for a reason, a flicker of guilt, of doubt—anything. But there was nothing, just the same deep, mysterious eyes I had fallen in love with that day under the tree in the House of Nobles when we first met. The irony.

My strength was failing. I could feel the last of my life slipping away, my grip on his wrist loosening as he moved closer, his forehead pressing against mine.

My eyes fluttered closed, my last thought hanging like a whisper in the dark: Why?

And then, there was nothing.