Turning off the shower, I snatch a towel and wrap it tight around me before stepping onto the cold tiles. The mirror is completely obscured by steam. I wipe a circle clear with my hand and stare at my reflection. My amber eyes look brighter, almost glowing in the dim light, and I look less like a woman on the edge of a breakdown and more like someone who has just unwittingly started a war.
I dress in an oversized t-shirt, knickers, thick socks, and march to the kitchen. My stomach roars, demanding tribute. Dastian’s magic bread was nice, but right now, I need something substantial and entirely mortal to ground me before I lose my mind completely.
I raid the fridge and land on a packet of bacon. Perfect. I toss four rashers into a frying pan, the hiss and spit of hot grease sounding like music compared to the apocalyptic pronouncements of the last few hours. While the meat crisps, I butter two thick slices of white bread and grab the brown sauce.
Through the kitchen window, the darkness shifts. It’s not just the wind in the apple tree. The shadows lengthen, pressing against the glass like a curious cat. They’re distinct, cool, and unmistakably Dreven. He’s out there in the rain, guarding me like a possessive gargoyle.
I slap the bacon onto the bread, add a dollop of brown sauce, and take a bite. It tastes of salt and normality. I chew slowly, staring at the black square of the window. The Order lied. My ancestors were power-hungry traitors, and I’m standing here pretending like the world hasn’t just tilted on its axis.
Generations of slayers, convinced we were the shield,when really, we were just the jealous ex-partners who stole the car keys and locked the house. It’s pathetic. It’s infuriating. And worse, it makes sense. The gap inside me, that gnawing emptiness I’ve tried to fill with training and tea, is gone. Filled by three deities who drove me to the brink of madness and then had the audacity tofixme.
I swallow the last bite and sigh. I’m supposed to be processing this alone, doing things I normally do, being a mortal for maybe the last time before this Crown of Wraiths turns me into one. But the fact is, I’m scared. For the first time, I’m really, truly scared.
“Come in,” I whisper, pushing the last bit of the sandwich away.
The shadows seep through the gap beneath the back door, pooling like spilt ink before shooting upwards. The temperature plummets, turning my breath into a ghost against the sudden chill.
Dreven solidifies in the space between the fridge and the table. He fills the small room, making my cottage feel like a dollhouse. He isn’t wet, despite the downpour outside; the rain seems to slide off his darkness like oil.
“You invited me in,” he says, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through the soles of my socks.
“I did.”
“Why did you?”
“Because the silence is too loud. And apparently, I have separation anxiety now. Which is pathetic.”
“It is the bond,” he states, unbothered by my self-deprecation.
He stands rigid, hands at his sides, intense silver eyes tracking my every twitch. He looks like a weapon someone left in a domestic setting—dangerous and entirely out of place next to my toaster.
“We are the storm, Nyssa. You keep us from destroying everything.” He steps forward, closing the distance, but he doesn’t touch me. I don’t ask him to.
“I’m going to bed. I need to sleep for a week.”
“We don’t have a week.”
“It’s a saying. You can stay, or you can go. Up to you.” I shrug to show my indifference.
I leave him standing amidst the smell of bacon grease and existential dread as I make my way to my bedroom. The cottage feels different now—smaller, fragile. Like a stiff breeze could knock it over, or a shadow could swallow it whole.
I don’t bother closing the bedroom door. I crawl under the duvet, shivering as the cold sheets hit my skin. It’s pathetic, really. A few hours ago, I was naked in a magical lake getting railed by deities, and now I’m curled up in a t-shirt that says ‘I Hate Mondays’, desperate for a hot water bottle.
The room darkens. Not the gradual dimming of twilight, but a sudden, absolute snuffing of the light.
The mattress dips.
I don’t flinch. I just shift over, making space. Dreven lies down on top of the covers, fully clothed, a solid bar of darkness against my back. He radiates a chill that should be unpleasant, but instead, it settles the frantic buzzing in my veins.
I close my eyes, and for the first time since I woke up to a ghost drooling on me, the world stops spinning.
“Sleep, Nyssa,” he commands softly. “I’m here.”
And for once, I obey.
Chapter 33
Dreven
