Chapter 31
“I said no. I don’t need it,” Damian snapped, his voice like frost.
Deborah looked at him, lips tightening into a pout, her eyes starting to sting. “Please, Your Highness… I’m asking you.”
“I told you–don’t beg me!” he shouted. ‘Damn this woman.‘
She’d figured it out. She had discovered the one thing that always made his defenses crack. Just a slight pout, eyes misting over, that vulnerable look –and he couldn’t help it. Something in him softened.
But he forced his expression back into a scowl. “If you don’t get out now, I won’t be so polite.”
“I’m Simon’s wife. You can’t be rude to me,” she said under her breath.
Damian let out a sharp laugh. “Oh? You still remember your husband’s name?”
“Your Highness…” She lifted her eyes to him, blinking gently. Those large, glassy eyes shimmered with unshed tears, heartbreakingly pitiful.
Damian wanted to curse out loud. But instead, his grip on her wrist… loosened. “Don’t pull that act with me—”
I just want to look,” Deborah said quickly, and before he could stop her, she tugged open his inner robe.
She didn’t dare glance at his chest. All her focus was fixed on his back. And the moment she saw it, her breath caught.
His back was covered in lash marks–countless scars, some fresh, others faded. The kind made by a whip with barbed ends.
Each strike had torn flesh around the edges, leaving the skin mangled and raw. Not deep enough to kill—but meant to hurt. To torture.
“Why…?” Her voice faltered as her fingers hovered above his back. She didn’t even dare to touch the wounds. They were… horrifying.
“You done?” Damian asked flatly, reaching to pull his robe back up.
But Deborah’s voice was quiet. “You’re really not going to treat it?”
“There’s no need.”
And in that moment, she understood. These weren’t injuries he could let others see.
Who would ever believe it? That the exalted Prince Damian—the mighty, untouchable war god–had been whipped like this?
And not just once. The scars overlapped, some old, some new. He’d endured this more than a few times. Some of those marks looked years old.
Deborah didn’t even know how to describe what she was feeling. In her wildest dreams, she never imagined anyone could lay a hand on him–let alone do this, for years.
She stepped quietly away from the bed, opened the door, and said to Thomas, “Can you bring me a medicine kit?”
Thomas hesitated, his voice barely above a whisper. “His Highness never allows treatment…”
“Just bring it. I’ll talk to him.”
Truthfully, Thomas wanted to believe she could. He didn’t want to keep watching Damian suffer in silence, With a quick nod, he left and returned a few moments later with the medicine box in hand.
“I said I don’t need it,” Damian growled. His face was grim, his tone colder than ever.
Deborah didn’t answer. She took the box, brought it to the bed, and sat down beside him. “Your Highness… can you lie down for me?”
“You think I’m just talking to hear myself?” His voice was dark, biting.
Deborah didn’t look up. “If you don’t, I’ll cry.”
“What does that have to do with-” He stopped.
She wasn’t bluffing. Her eyes were already red, a tear slipping out as if on command.
He thought, ‘What is this woman made of? Water?‘
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9:23 AM
Chapter 31
He gritted his teeth. “Fine. I’ll lie down, alright?”
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Deborah said nothing. She uncorked the strong medicinal wine Thomas had brought, dipped a clean cotton cloth into it, and looked over at him.
“It’s going to sting. Bear with it.”
He didn’t respond. But the second the alcohol touched his skin, his entire back tensed. The muscles beneath his shoulders tightened like iron. Beads of sweat formed almost instantly at his temples.
Deborah’s chest ached at the sight.
The war god everyone revered–always strong, always invincible—was still just a man. He bled. He felt pain. And if the wounds were deep enough he could die, just like anyone else.
Her heart twisted in her chest. She wondered, ‘Who could do this to him? Who would dare? Is it… Emily?‘
