Sweet Hatred
Chapter 61: Not a single tear

Chapter 61: Not a single tear

KAEL

I didn’t look away.

She stood there under the stream, quiet. Water hit her skin and ran down in rivulets, trailing over the bruises on her wrists, her arms, her neck. The chain had left marks—dark, red, tender. A line of dried blood mixed with the water and dripped from her elbow. And still, she didn’t cry.

I waited for it. Expected it. Hell, I wanted it. Not because I enjoyed seeing her break—I definitely did. But because crying would’ve meant she was still there. Still human. Still processing what the hell just happened. Instead, she stood like a statue—soaked, silent, staring at the tiled wall like it might give her answers.

She flinched when I stepped in behind her.

I didn’t ask for permission. I didn’t need to. She wasn’t in any state to answer, anyway. And I wasn’t going to leave her alone in here when she was barely present. People faint in showers. People slip. And if she hit her head and bled out because I gave her space, I’d never forgive myself.

I reached past her, adjusting the water to something warmer. She tensed for a split second—shoulders going rigid—before relaxing again. That reaction, subtle as it was, made something sharp twist in my gut.

This wasn’t Aria. Not the one who slammed doors and shot fire from her mouth like a pissed-off dragon. This wasn’t the woman who looked me in the eye when she hated me. This was something else.

I let the water run over both of us for a moment before I answered. "What’s so wrong with being fragile?"

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t have to.

Because I could see it, right there in the way her jaw clenched and her throat bobbed. She was trying to hold it in. The silence, the distance, the too-steady breathing—that was all defense. Her armor. The same kind I used to wear back when I stood in blood-soaked sand pretending I wasn’t falling apart inside.

And fuck, did I recognize the signs.

It hit me then—this feeling, this memory curling in the back of my head.

Ivan.

His name flashed for a second. His face—grinning, blood on his teeth, arms limp in my hold as I screamed for a medic that never came.

No.

I shut it down. Closed the door, locked it, and turned back to the woman in front of me.

She barely even spoke as I brushed the wet hair from her face and said, "You need to sit down before your legs give out."

Her eyes flicked up to me. That spark—still there. Dimmed, but not dead.

"I’m not fragile," she muttered again as if trying to convince herself more than me.

I smirked. "Didn’t say you were."

"You’re thinking it."

She was shivering now. Not from the cold, but from something else entirely.

I stepped closer. Her head tilted up. Those eyes—stormy, unreadable. Still no tears.

"I’m not going to tell you to cry," I said low, my voice steady, even. "But if you want to, you can."

She chuckled. Soft. Bitter. "I wouldn’t even know how."

And gods if that didn’t ruin me a little.

I didn’t say anything else. Just pulled her to me, one arm wrapping around her waist, the other settling behind her neck as I cradled her against my chest under the water. She stiffened. Then slowly, slowly, she melted.

No sobbing. No trembling lip.

Just that quiet, empty weight of a woman who’d been pushed to the edge and didn’t fall—just stood there, looking down at the dark.

I held her tighter. If she wasn’t going to fall apart, I’d hold her together for as long as she needed.

Still she didn’t cry. Not a single tear.

I kept waiting for it. The shower’s warmth had soaked into our skin, steam curling around us like a veil, and still—not even a crack. She was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm I’d seen in men seconds before they snapped or collapsed under the weight of everything they were holding in.

The moment we stepped out of the bathroom, I wrapped a towel around her, grabbing one for myself. I was already moving before she could ask, pulling out something from my closet—an old hoodie, long enough to drown her, sleeves too big.

She put it on without a word.

I grabbed a towel and ran it over her hair as she sat quietly at the edge of my bed. Not a flinch. Not a protest. Her gaze was lost, locked somewhere far away I couldn’t reach—not yet.

As she curled into the blankets, I stood up and walked toward the cabinet near the dresser, dragging out the compact med kit I always kept nearby. I didn’t ask her if she needed it. I knew she did.

I sat beside her on the bed, unzipping the pouch quietly. She glanced at me—just briefly—but said nothing. I took that as permission.

Her skin was still damp and flushed from the heat of the shower. I reached for her wrist, slowly pulling her sleeve back.

The sight made my jaw clench.

Red, angry bruises circled both wrists—raw and tender from the chains. Small welts scattered along her forearms. And I knew there were more. On her back. Her ankles. Hell, maybe even her ribs. I forced my hands to be steady as I grabbed the antiseptic and cotton pads.

She didn’t flinch when I dabbed at the raw skin. Didn’t even look at me. She just stared at the wall, lids low, eyes tired.

"This wasn’t supposed to go that far," I muttered, not even realizing I’d said it aloud until her gaze finally shifted to me.

Still, she said nothing. Her silence didn’t accuse—it forgave. And that made it worse.

I tossed the used pads into the trash and gently rolled her sleeve back down. I didn’t bother bandaging anything. It would only trap heat. She was safe now.

"Thanks," she whispered.

I met her eyes again. Still dry. Still not a single tear. I didn’t know if I admired that strength or if it gutted me. Maybe both.

"You need to eat something," I said, heading into the kitchen. I didn’t look at her when I said it because I already knew the answer.

"I’m not hungry," her voice was flat. "Do you have anything strong?"

I glanced back. Her eyes weren’t lifeless. They were exhausted. Heavy with things I didn’t ask about. Things I already knew.