My gaze, unfocused, lingered on Thrax’s back, and an image jolted through me. I blinked hard, but it remained, a collision of two images, twitching against each other like a broken reel of film.
Thrax’s back.
And another’s.
I searched through my memory for whose back my brain thought was identical to Thrax’s. And came up empty. Until the back flashed again, and my mind took me back to the Archer’s back, when the silver-haired dancer hugged him.
The images fought, overlapping and merging, until they aligned. Until the two became one.
My chest constricted.
What the...
I cocked my head, staring at his back, wondering if my head was just playing with empty thoughts again. But then Thrax bent slightly to the side, reaching for something on the counter. His hair shifted with the motion, dark strands falling enough for me to glimpse something just beneath.
There was a mark, black and round-ish, identical to a tattoo. It inked against the back of his neck, disappearing beneath his collar.
Before I could stop myself, my feet moved, curiosity overriding caution. I reached out, fingers hovering to push back his hair and see the mark properly.
But he turned, catching my wrist mid-air, knife in his other hand that was rested beside a half-cut fruit.
“Hold on, I just want to check—”
His head jerked towards the stool where I usually sat. “Sit.”
I rolled my eyes, tugging my hand free, choosing not to press. I’d already overstepped once with the scar on his chest. It’d be stupid to repeat it. With a sigh, I dropped onto the stool, leaning my elbows on the counter, deciding instead to fill the silence with words.
“I had a dream.”
His quiet “hmm” urged me on.
“It did not feel like a dream. Even though it was a dream, it didn’t feel like mine.” I adjusted, glad I was sharing it with someone. “There was a woman in a white dress. She had long silver hair, and she was a good dancer. She’d been dancing in the dream with a very...brilliantly blinding smile. She was so charming. Also, she had something balanced on her head. And there was this archer who—”
He flinched a little, and I didn’t think it was because of what I was saying because the sound of knife meeting the cutting board stopped as well.
He’d cut himself.
I was rushing out of my seat and eating up the distance between us before I could think, catching his hand.
The slice across his forefinger was shallow, and a thin line of blood welled, sliding slow to his knuckle just as the skin began to pull together.
Before the drop of blood touched the floor, the skin had stitched itself, pulling closed until nothing but smooth flesh remained. I blinked.
He’d healed.
He could heal.
Thrax had healing ability.
Heat surged through me as I looked up at him, shaken to the core, his hand growing heavy and hot in mine. The claw marks and the cut on his palm suddenly became crystal clear with the new knowledge of his ability.
He had no shadow.
And he could heal.
Who the hell was I living with?
Who was he?
