How could Maris say that to him?

Maris had always been so intuitive, but in this…

The bastard was wrong.

Dead wrong.

“You want to know why I don’t bathe?” Darling snarled at him. “Because I have to look at this.” He jerked his mask off and threw it at Maris. It was the first time since he’d been rescued that he’d allowed anyone other than Syn to see what was left of him.

And it was truly repulsive.

His expression unreadable, Maris caught the mask to his chest. Tears welled up in his friend’s eyes as he finally saw the true horror of what had been done to Darling.

And that was just on the surface.

Darling turned away as agony washed through his entire being. It was the internal damage that tore him up the most. Every time he saw his face or his skin, it took him right back to that room where they’d hung him up, naked, like a piece of meat to be butchered. All of it hit him again as if it were still happening—as if he’d wake up and be right back there at their mercy. He felt every stinging emotion of being abandoned and alone and hopeless.

Helpless.

He, who had the power, speed, and skills to kill a man with the ease of a League assassin, had been completely unable to stop them from violating him.

Over and over.

With every glimpse of his skin, Darling smelled the blood, the shit, and the urine. The vomit. Every vicious thing they’d said to him while they’d carved him up—the laughter and joy they’d taken in their cruelty rang in his ears until he was deaf from it.

Nothing could silence it.

Nothing.

And above it all, was the sound of Zarya on the other side of the door, going about her daily routine while they viciously brutalized him, day after day, month after month.

Even then, he’d prayed that she, the woman who’d sworn she would never betray or hurt him, would just open the door and help him.

Instead, when she’d finally come inside, she’d slapped and cursed him like all the others.

That was what he couldn’t face.

And now Maris dared to bring the bitch back into his life…

Maris was lucky he hadn’t punched him.

Sick to his stomach and battered to the core of his soul, Darling fished through the mess he’d made in his office and pulled his bottle of Tondarion whisky up from the floor where it’d rolled after he’d overturned his desk.

This had been the only comfort he’d had since they’d rescued him. Nothing else eased the bitterness in his dead heart. While the whisky didn’t get rid of the voices entirely, it at least dulled them enough that he could function around the memories.

He took a deep swig straight from the bottle and let the liquor burn down his damaged throat. The one thing he’d learned in his useless life was how to find pleasure in pain. It was all the gods had left him with. “You’ll have to excuse me if I’m not feeling up to a shower or shave right now.”