December 4th 1440
The grueling tasks Maria assigned Cleo grew harder each day, from skinning corpses to dragging their remains up a steep hill for burning. As she pulled the heavy wagon up the incline, sweat slicked her shirt and skirt to her skin, clinging to her chest and thighs, while her hands, sore and red from gripping the ropes, ached with each movement. The stench was unbearable, a fetid mixture of death and unidentifiable fluids that clung to her. Reaching the summit, Cleo collapsed, catching her breath and cursing Maria’s relentless demands.
Lost in exhaustion, Cleo was startled by the sound of low, steady breathing nearby. Rising unsteadily to her feet, she saw Zadarrah’s looming figure, his gaze cold as he took in her disheveled state. She muttered a breathless greeting, but he ignored her, his attention fixed on the corpses. He tipped the wagon with his boot, sending the bodies tumbling to the ground with wet, sickening thuds. One body split open upon impact, spilling decayed organs onto the dirt. Cleo recoiled, gagging.
“Have you no respect for the dead?” she snapped, voice tight with anger. But Zadarrah paid her no mind, calmly pulling out a slender silver knife and beginning to examine the bodies.
Fed up, she grabbed his wrist to stop him. Without a word, he threw her off with such force that she tumbled down the hill, her skin scraping against thorns and rocks until she landed, bruised and muddied, in a puddle thick with worms. She rose slowly, her anger simmering with each step back up the hill. How dare he!
Yet as she reached the top and met his gaze once more, her fury gave way to the unsettling thrill he stirred within her. His broad shoulders, fur-lined coat, and silver hair glistened in the early light. Every detail made her heart race, reminding her of her strange attraction to him despite the danger. She watched, unable to look away, as he bent over a corpse, his gloved hands immaculate even as he worked with blood and filth around him.
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Pulling herself together, Cleo called out to him with a smile, brushing off dirt and debris. “Desecration isn’t a quality I admire,” she said with forced lightness, “but I wouldn’t mind helping you look for whatever it is you’re after.”
Zadarrah’s gaze shifted to her with cold amusement, as if contemplating whether she had survived the fall by sheer will or something more. As he stood, she tossed a small twig his way, but it barely made it to his feet. Annoyed, she tried again, this time with a pebble that managed to hit his shoulder. His expression darkened, but she met his eyes defiantly.
“Should my brothers discover that you assaulted their sister, they’ll demand retribution,” she warned, voice steady. “And it seems you only prey upon the dead—or poorly trained women.” Her attempt at boldness was met with a thin-lipped stare as he walked slowly toward her, towering and silent.
Gathering herself, Cleo went on, “Let me help you with whatever you’re searching for in these corpses. Or do it yourself and sift through every pile of ash and grave on these grounds.”
He studied her, his intense gaze unsettling her composure. “And if you don’t find it?” he finally asked, his voice low, thick with an accent that sent a shiver down her spine.
“Faith teaches us that all things—good or ill—serve a purpose,” she replied, struggling to maintain her calm. She knew she attracted attention, and even now, covered in dirt, blood, and sweat, her allure was evident to those who could see past her disheveled state. But all she saw on Zadarrah’s face was disdain.
“I have work to do,” she said, breaking eye contact and setting to her task. With quiet diligence, she gathered the remains and set them alight, feeling the weight of his stare even as he offered no help.
Exhausted, Cleo abandoned the wagon and sought the comfort of her secluded cottage nearby. Stripping off her soiled clothes, she eased into a bath infused with rosemary and coconut oil, allowing the water to soothe her aching body. Her fingers traced the ripples in the bath, and she sighed, wondering aloud, “Lord, what has ignited such anger within me?”
Her thoughts drifted to Michael, the memory of his harsh “discipline” lingering as it always did here. This hidden refuge was her sanctuary, a place he knew nothing about. Though scarred by painful memories, she had restored it, a testament to her resilience. Soon, she would face a choice: to continue under her family’s oppressive grip or pursue the man who had tried—and failed—to destroy her. She closed her eyes, sinking deeper into the water, and smiled to herself. The decision, after all, was simple.
what do you want?
