"Are you hurt?"
"No."
"Lying?"
"No."
"Going to fall over if I stop watching?"
"Possibly."
Small smile. "There's a chair. Sit."
"I should—"
"Sit."
I sit. Can barely stand anyway. The shadow chair molds to me. When she sits on the shadow bed, I feel it. Her weight. How her dress settles. This connection through darkness.
"You need sleep."
"Need to coordinate defenses—"
"Need sleep. Real sleep. Not closed eyes while planning murders."
"That's time management."
Another smile. She organizes supplies that aren't there.
My shadows pool around the chair, too tired for form. Still reaching for her. She doesn't flinch when they touch her ankles.
"Just five minutes."
I close my eyes. Through shadow connections I feel everything—her weight shifting, her warmth, her humming. My exhausted body stops fighting. The shadows respond to her instead of me.
Five minutes. Then back to being Shadow King. Planning death. Managing territory. Pretending I don't feel her through every shadow.
Last thought: she's humming about shepherds. Or sheep. My shadows tell me how her chest moves, how she almost smiles when a note sounds right.
Just five minutes.
Chapter 16
He's actually sleeping. Not that fake sleep where his eyes close but his shoulders stay tense and his hand hovers near a weapon. Real sleep, the kind where his mouth falls open slightly and there's a tiny bit of drool that I absolutely will not mention when he wakes up.
The shadow chair holds him carefully. His head's tilted at an angle that's going to hurt later, but I can't adjust it without waking him. The blood on his shirt has dried to rust-brown patches. That can't be comfortable. Does dried blood itch? It looks like it would itch. Maybe it's crusty? I've never actually touched dried blood on purpose.
Morning light filters through the grimy windows—well, the ones that still have glass—and catches the silver in his hair. There's definitely more than last week. Am I aging him? Is that what happens when you make the Shadow King eat vegetables and worry about clean sheets? Sorry about your premature graying, here's some soup?
The warehouse is freezing. My breath comes out in little puffs, and my toes are already going numb through my thin shoes. Should have brought slippers from the apartment. Do assassins wear slippers? They should. Cold feet lead to illness.
His hands are unclenched for once. I've never seen them relaxed before. Even when he was sitting for the portrait, there was always this readiness, like he might need to strangle someone mid-brushstroke. But now they're just... hands. Longfingers with those shadow scars, yes, but normal human hands that need rest. When did he last trim his nails? They look decent actually. Better than mine.
I fetch my good blanket—the one my grandmother made that weighs enough to crush a small child—and drape it over him carefully. He shifts slightly but doesn't wake. Just burrows deeper into the shadow chair that adjusts around him. His breath makes little fog clouds in the cold air.
"There. Much better than that disaster of a shirt."
When I step back, some of his shadows peel away from the chair and wind around my shoulders. Not threatening or cold, just... there. Warm, actually.
