A Faint HeartBeat

"Wake up," he murmured again, pressing a kiss to her temple, his lips lingering as if his touch alone could pull her back to him. "Please."

But there was no answer.

Not yet.

Alaric drew a slow breath and, with a steady hand, began to undress her—his fingers unfastening the ruined laces of her gown. 

The water made it easier to peel away the fabric, though it clung stubbornly to her skin, heavy with blood, sweat, and dirt.

He worked in silence—his jaw locked, his throat burning.

Every inch of her told the story of her captivity: scratches along her arms, a bruise blooming on her shoulder, and the delicate skin of her palms lined with blisters—proof of her battle against whatever cursed magic had trapped her.

He hissed softly.

"Who did this to you, my love?" His voice was both a plea and a promise—one lined with the unspoken vow of vengeance.