chapter Twenty-two

Hey, hey, hey y'all! It's been a long time, I was extremely busy and still is but I promise to find some time for you!

_____

"There are wounds that never show on the body that are deeper and more hurtful than anything that bleeds."-Laurell K. Hamilton-

____

The words echoed in my mind as I stood there, staring at Hassan with a strange mixture of confusion and unease. "Undress yourself." The command was simple, but it struck me deeply, stirring something inside me that he had long tried to bury.

I had heard those words before, many years ago, but not in the context of something he could ever accept.

They had come from someone else—someone older, someone stronger, but whose actions were nothing but vile manipulation. That man had been the one to tell me to undress, to submit, to become something less than human under the weight of his cruel desires.

No, this is not that, I thought, clenching his fists as the memories threatened to flood him again.

I had worked so hard to forget them, to bury them beneath layers of pride and duty, and to distance myself from that wretched time in my life.

But now, standing before Sir Hassan—someone he had once trusted and still trusted in a way—it felt as though those dark memories had returned, uninvited.

Why now? I thought, his chest tightening. Why today, and why me?

Hassan had asked me, with such innocence and desire, to undress. But beneath the surface of those words, I could not escape the terror that threatened to overwhelm him. I could not allow myself to be exposed, not in that way—not again.

I turned abruptly, my pulse quickening as the weight of the moment pressed on me like an iron chain.

"I-I cannot," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper, as though saying it aloud might make it all real.

Without waiting for Hassan's response, I bolted from the room, my feet pounding against the floor as he raced toward the door. The cool night air hit me like a slap in the face as I stumbled out into the forest, the trees a blur as I ran, each step driven by a desperate need to escape—to escape the feelings, the memories, the fear that had resurfaced in my mind.

No one will hurt me again, I vowed silently to himself, though my body trembled with the weight of the unspoken words.

Behind me, Hassan's voice called out—louder now, more urgent. But I could not stop, could not slow my pace. I had to keep running, to distance himself from everything I feared, everything I had tried to forget.

Hassan followed close behind, his footfalls quick but not as frantic as mine's. He was no fool. He had seen the fear flash across my face, the way I had bolted without explanation.

"Alexander!" Hassan's voice broke through the chaos of my thoughts, cutting through the darkness of the forest.

But still, I didn't stop. My mind was a whirlwind, each memory crashing into the next. I could feel the cold, clammy fingers of my past reaching out to grab me, pulling me deeper into the woods of his own mind.

Why can't you understand? I thought bitterly, frustration boiling in my chest. Why can't you just leave me alone?

Hassan's voice came again, now close enough to reach me. "Stop!"

But I only ran faster. My mind raced, his breath coming in ragged gasps as I pushed through the underbrush, my thoughts tangled and disjointed. My past was clawing at me, dragging him back to that place where I had been powerless, where I had been broken.

Finally, when my strength began to fail, I collapsed against a tree, my body trembling with exhaustion. I sank to the ground, my hands clutching the rough bark, my breath shallow and frantic. My chest heaved, as if he could outrun my own thoughts.

His words were meaningless, offering no solace. His concern, though genuine, only seemed to deepen the wound.

I had tried to push him away, but it had not worked. I had tried to distance myself from him, yet still he followed, relentless in his pursuit of understanding. I could feel his eyes on me, a gaze filled with something I could not—would not—accept.

I had only one choice, it seemed. I had to reject him, to shut him out completely. And so, I did. The words I spoke were harsh, cruel even, but in the moment, they felt necessary—necessary to protect myself from the vulnerability he threatened to expose.

"You don't understand!" I had hissed at him, my voice low and cutting.

"You are nothing but a child playing at concerns you cannot comprehend. Do not follow me. Do not approach me."

The look in his eyes… it lingered with me. There had been hurt in his gaze, and something else—a confusion that mirrored my own. But what did that matter? What did any of it matter? He could never understand.

I had rejected him, and I had done so with all the finality I could muster. He had to know that I would not allow him to encroach upon this part of me. He was not my equal in this. No one could be.

When he had tried to reach out again, I recoiled, turning away from him with all the coldness I could summon. I will not be vulnerable, I told myself. Not now, not ever again.

The silence between us stretched, thick and suffocating. I could hear the sounds of the forest, the rustle of the leaves in the wind, but it felt as though I were drowning beneath an overwhelming weight of my own making. The anger that had fueled my flight now gave way to something far darker—sadness, regret, a sense of isolation that wrapped itself around me like a shroud.

Hassan did not speak. He did not press me further, but I could feel the tension in the air, the quiet frustration he must have been harboring. Perhaps, for a fleeting moment, he had hoped that he could change my mind, that he could reach me in a way no one else ever had.

But I had already made my decision. The walls I had built, the distance I had created between myself and others—those things were not meant to be breached. Not by him. Not by anyone.

"Let us return," I had said curtly, my voice devoid of warmth. "I have no desire to remain here any longer."

He had said nothing in response, but I could hear his footfalls behind me as we turned back toward the palace. Each step felt heavier than the last, the weight of our silence pressing down on both of us. I could not look at him, could not bear the thought of his gaze on me, knowing that I had hurt him. But I could not allow myself to regret it, not yet.

We walked in silence, the journey back to the palace an agonizing stretch of time where every passing second felt like an eternity. The frustration gnawed at me, the bitterness in my chest growing with each step. Why had he followed me? Why had he dared to care?

And beneath it all, there was a sadness—a deep, gnawing ache that I could not silence. For a brief moment, I had felt as though I could allow myself to be seen, to be understood. But then, that same terror gripped me. The fear of vulnerability, the fear of being exposed—of being hurt again.

By the time we reached the palace, I was filled with nothing but a quiet, suffocating frustration. It was not just with Hassan, nor even with myself. It was a frustration that had no clear origin, but which consumed me entirely.