Page 59 of The Thren's Fated

A Thren she recognized as the one they had arrived with helped Screl up, leading him off the platform and toward the door. The two princes released Lena, and the Sovereign pulled her close to him once more.

“I would take you for myself if I thought you had anything to offer, human,” he snarled, his tentacle still tightly circled around her neck. “Be gone unless you want my other offspring to enjoy you.”

Laughter echoed through the room as the Sovereign released her, and she hurried off the platform, trying to stay as far away from every Thren as she could. She ran to Screl and followed him out the door as the guard supported his weight.

Minutes later, they were in another room, the Thren guard helping Screl remove his shirt and depositing him onto an enormous bed. He looked at Lena seriously, then spoke for the first time.

“I will wait outside the door,” he said, before turning and leaving them alone.

The room had that vaguely familiar quality that all Thren spaces seemed to imbue—polished silver walls and minimalist furniture.

With a deep breath, she cautiously stepped over to the bed, afraid of what she might find. Screl was on his back, a wheezing noise emanating from his chest, though he was eerily still, his eyes squeezed shut.

Deep lacerations split his skin in various spots, thick, red blood oozing from the wounds. Dark bruises were already beginning to form on his exposed skin, and she shuddered at the sight, of the memory of how viciously the Thren Sovereign had beaten his own child.

Strangely, the echoed pain she was feeling was already easing as the seconds ticked by, and she hoped against all hope that it meant Screl was getting better, that he would survive.

“Yavriel,” she whispered, reaching for his shoulder and touching him lightly.

His eyes shot open, and he grabbed her wrist, a look of alarm on his face.

“It’s me,” she said, unable to get away from his firm grip even in his weakened state.

Finally, his eyes focused on her, their normal luminescence returning.

“Lena,” he wheezed, loosening his hold until his arm fell back onto the bed.

“Are you alright?”

Screl breathed heavily, though his eyes remained open, glistening with tears.

“I am sorry,” he said, taking her hand in his. “I should not have brought you here. I should not have done any of this.”

“Are you going to be alright?” she asked again, ignoring his apology.

All that mattered was that he would be okay, that he wouldn’t leave her. His hand fit perfectly in both of hers, and she squeezed him tight, rage bubbling within her. At least her parents had the decency to keep their hands off her—all of their sparring had been the verbal kind, so vicious it ultimately led to their divorce.

But Screl’s father was different. She had a sick feeling that the outburst of violence wasn’t a rare encounter, that it was likely something Screl had endured throughout his life, and the thought just about broke her heart.

“I will be,” he breathed, as if every word was difficult to get out. “Please lie with me. Do not leave me.”

This time it was not a command, like he had uttered so many times before. It was a desperate plea, his eyes begging her as she stood next to him.

Lena remembered the fights her parents had that lasted all night, recalled curling into a ball on her bed with tears streaking her cheeks, just wishing someone would be there to hold her, comfort her.

Before she could second-guess, she nodded, walking around to the other side of the bed and removing her jacket and pants.

Lena crawled over to Screl, twisting onto her side and propping herself up with a pillow. His tentacles reached for her, and she extended an arm, allowing them to encircle her and drag her closer. She had so many questions, but decided they could wait until he was better and they could get the hell out of here.

He pulled her flush against his body, and she felt the intensity of his pain, though the warmth of his presence blanketed all in glowing heat. Her skin tingled where they touched, a soothing balm that told her he would survive as long as she stayed close.

“Yavriel,” she whispered almost inaudibly, then kissed him on the cheek.

“Amoreth,” he growled, as she kissed him again and again on his shoulders and upper arms.

She took a tentacle in her hand and brought it to her soft lips, savoring Screl’s resulting moan. The heat in her chest flared with the touch, with the sounds, with the proximity to this alien who had hurt her in many ways.

“Come here,” he said, before heaving her onto his lap, wheezing heavily from the exertion.