A Dangerous Obsession
Chapter 67 - 66

Chapter 67: Chapter 66

I left the training grounds with my sword hanging loosely at my side, every step a painful reminder of my stupidity. I should’ve stopped sooner, but I didn’t. And now my hands were raw, my legs were jelly, and my pride? Well, that was still very much intact—thank you very much.

The path back to my bedchamber wasn’t long, but it felt like a lifetime. Mostly because of the looks.

Oh, the side glances.

Every servant I passed seemed to think I wouldn’t notice the way their eyes darted toward me before quickly looking away. The faint bows they offered weren’t exactly brimming with respect either. Some of them didn’t even bother hiding the curiosity—or was it pity?

It didn’t matter. I straightened my spine, lifting my chin like I didn’t feel the stares or the whispers trailing behind me.

By the time I reached my room, my body felt like it had been run over by a particularly enthusiastic herd of horses. I shoved the door open with more force than necessary, my boots scuffing against the polished floor as I stepped inside.

The room was as pristine as ever, thanks to my maid. Not a single thing out of place. Even the sunlight streaming through the tall windows felt annoyingly perfect.

"Gwen!" I called, letting my sword clatter onto the stand by the door. My voice echoed through the room, sharp and impatient.

A few seconds later, Gwen, my new personal maid appeared, her face pale as usual, her hands clasped tightly in front of her apron. She looked like she expected me to bark orders—or throw something.

"Prepare a bath," I said curtly, not bothering to look at her as I peeled off my gloves and tossed them onto a nearby chair.

"Yes, my lady," she replied softly, dipping into a quick bow before scurrying off like a frightened rabbit.

I sighed, leaning back against the wall and closing my eyes for a moment. The tension in my shoulders was unbearable, and the dull throb in my hands wasn’t helping.

When Gwen returned, the faint sound of water splashing into the tub filled the room. I opened my eyes to see her moving with precise, practiced motions, pouring steaming water into the large copper basin.

"Anything else, my lady?" she asked once the tub was ready, her voice barely above a whisper as she walked out of the bath room.

"No," I muttered, waving her off. "Just leave."

She bowed again and slipped out of my bed chamber, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the lingering scent of lavender from the bathwater.

I undressed quickly, grimacing at the sight of my hands in the mirror. They looked worse than they felt—red, blistered, and painfully raw.

The bath was scorching, the kind of heat that made my skin flush red and my breath hitch the second I slipped into it. But I didn’t care. I wanted it that way—wanted to feel the burn, wanted it to drown out everything else.

The lavender-scented steam curled around me as I eased lower, submerging myself up to the neck. My muscles screamed in protest as the heat pried them apart, but the ache was strangely satisfying, like I was punishing myself for being...what? Stupid? Weak? Naive?

The water lapped at my collarbones as I leaned my head back, the tension in my shoulders slowly melting. My hands stung like hell when the water touched them, and I had to bite down on a hiss. They looked awful—raw and red, like I had been wrestling with sandpaper all day. Which, honestly, wasn’t far from the truth.

The soap sat on the edge of the tub, taunting me with its floral scent. Lavender. Of course, Gwen had picked lavender. Something soft and delicate, completely at odds with the way I felt right now. I grabbed the bar anyway, scrubbing at my skin with more force than necessary, as if I could scrape away the frustration and anger clinging to me.

The water turned murky, specks of dirt and blood swirling in lazy circles around me. Evidence of the morning’s training—or self-destruction, depending on how you looked at it.

I closed my eyes and sank deeper, letting the water creep up to my chin. My mind wandered, as it always did when I was left alone too long. Back to the courtyard, back to my father’s shadow disappearing from the window. Had he been watching for long? Was he impressed, or was he just cataloging my failures for later use?

The thought made my stomach churn. I pressed my hands against the sides of the tub, gripping the copper edge so tightly my knuckles turned white.

Stop thinking about him.

Easier said than done, of course. His voice was always there, lingering in the back of my mind like a specter. Be better. Be stronger. Be smarter. And never forget your place.

The water was starting to cool, but I didn’t want to get out. Not yet. The world outside the bath felt too heavy, too suffocating. In here, surrounded by steam and silence, it was easier to breathe. Easier to pretend I wasn’t falling apart at the seams.

But eventually, the chill became impossible to ignore. I sat up slowly, water streaming off my skin.

Gwen reappeared as if on cue, her footsteps hesitant as she entered with a fresh towel.

"Here, my lady," she murmured, holding it out with trembling hands.

I snatched it from her without a word, wrapping it around myself. The soft fabric was a welcome relief against my raw hands as I wrapped it around myself, tucking it securely at the chest.

"Bring me some ointment," I said over my shoulder, not bothering to look at her.

She hurried off again.

The floor was cold under my feet as I stepped out of the tub, leaving a trail of damp footprints on the polished wood. The mirror on the wall caught my reflection, and I paused, staring at the girl looking back at me.

Her hair was plastered to her face, water dripping from the ends onto her shoulders. Her eyes were tired, shadows smudged beneath them like bruises. And her hands...Gods, her hands. They looked like they belonged to someone else entirely. Someone reckless and desperate.

I dragged the towel over my face, blocking out the sight of her. I didn’t want to see her anymore.

By the time I was dressed, the steam had begun to dissipate, leaving the room colder and emptier than before. Gwen had already cleaned up while I was bathing—of course she had. The woman moved like a ghost, always silent, always efficient.

Gwen came back, holding a small jar of ointment like it was made of glass.

"Leave it," I said, pointing to the table by the window.

She placed it down carefully and turned to leave, but something made me stop her.

"Gwen," I said, my voice softer this time.

She froze, glancing back at me with wide eyes.

"Nevermind" I said quietly.

Her expression shifted— almost confused—but she nodded quickly and left without a word.

Alone again, I sank into the chair by the window, my eyes drifting to the ointment on the table.

After awhile, left my bedchamber, my footsteps echoing softly in the hallway. The servants I passed gave me the same looks as before—furtive glances, shallow bows. One of them, a young maid carrying a tray of tea, nearly dropped it when I brushed past her.

I didn’t stop to apologize. Not because I didn’t care, but because I couldn’t. Stopping meant acknowledging them, acknowledging everything.

The manor was alive with its usual hum of activity—maids bustling from room to room, their arms laden with linens and trays; stablehands hauling buckets of water through the courtyard. The scent of freshly baked bread wafted from the kitchens, mingling with the crisp, earthy smell of the garden outside.

But none of it mattered. None of it ever mattered.

I climbed the stairs, back to my bedchamber, my legs still heavy from training. When I finally pushed open the door, the familiar silence greeted me like an old friend. The sword I had discarded earlier was resting beside my bed where Gwen had kept them. Gleaming faintly in the afternoon light.

My fingers twitched at the sight of it, itching to pick it up again. To swing until my muscles screamed and my hands bled. But I knew better.

For now, at least.

Instead, I sank onto the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under my weight. My hair was still damp, strands sticking to the back of my neck as I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

The ointment Gwen had left sat on the bedside table, its lid slightly ajar. I reached for it, unscrewing the top and dipping a finger into the cool, soothing balm. The scent of herbs and something faintly medicinal filled the air as I began to rub it into my palms, wincing at the sting.

It was a small thing, this act of self-care. But it felt monumental, like admitting defeat and victory all at once.

When I was done, I leaned back against the headboard, staring up at the ceiling. The sunlight streaming through the windows shifted as the day wore on, painting the walls in shades of gold and amber.

Tomorrow, I would train again. Tomorrow, I would pick up the sword and swing until my body begged me to stop.

But for now, I allowed myself this moment of quiet. This moment of stillness.

The storm could wait.