“Wouldn’t he call for you?” As far as I know, Zephyrus cannot deny the compulsion, not for long.
“He would, but he hasn’t. My return is not enough. He would want to punish those responsible for helping me escape the cleansing ritual as well.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he slumps lower against the outcropping. “That can only mean he’s sent for the hounds.”
“The hounds?”
“Unfortunately, you are now marked by the Orchid King.”
A chill licks at my flesh beneath the heavy wool of Harper’s cloak, which Zephyrus has returned to me. “What does that mean?”
He pinches the bridge of his nose in a rare sign of distress. “Pierus will do everything in his power to hunt you. Your only chance at survival is to leave Under and never return.”
“I’m not leaving without you.”
“You’re not listening. You cannot outrun the hounds. No one can. They are bred for one thing only: to catch their prey. The tallest peaks, the widest rivers, the deepest chasms. No matter where you run, they will find you.” His hands fist, long fingers enclosed within the strong, callused palms. “I would not see you torn apart by darkness.”
It begins subtly: a prickle in my throat, dampness beneath my arms. Nerves fray, and I struggle to catch my breath. “They wouldn’t kill me. Mother Mabel would never allow it…”
“Brielle.”
My name drifts like a fog, and the fire spins into threads of color and light, the ground sliding out from beneath me.
“Look at me.”
I turn, and there is the West Wind, the heat of his breath thawing the chill tightening my cheeks. Grasping my braid in one hand, he pulls the tresses free, allowing his fingers to slide through, cupping the back of my skull.
My chest sears with sharpening pain. “My heart—”
“Is beating steadily,” he says, pressing his palm to the rise of my breast. “You are safe.”
Knotting my fingers with his, I crush his hand harder against my sternum, as if it might punch through skin and bone, take the place of this failing organ. Beneath his gaze, my pulse slows, descending from its treacherous high. Then the blackness retreats, giving way to fire and light.
Watchful and troubled, he tucks a russet curl behind my ear. “My darling novitiate, will you sit with me?”
The endearment stirs a flutter behind my ribs. “I’m already sitting with you.”
“I’m afraid I must disagree,” he says, that old charisma returning. “You sit next to me, but I wish you to sitwithme.”
Now I understand. The difference lies in the choice.
I nod, and he tucks me against his side. Quietly, he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
I am no stranger to my body’s reactions, however ill-informed they are. Do I want to talk about it? Not especially.
“I can’t remember a time when I did not feel overwhelmed.” I rub the back of my hand across my eyes. Unsurprisingly, it comes away wet. “It’s hard to describe.”
“You write a lot in your journal.” A pointed gaze, nonjudgmental, merely curious—the simple desire to know.
“Yes.” I remember the humiliation of Harper reading my private musings. Likely Zephyrus does, too. “Putting my thoughts to paper helps when I feel myself spiraling.”
“Does this happen a lot?”
How often is a lot? Weekly? If so, then yes, but I am used to it. At this point in my life, it is woven into the fabric of myself. I am not Brielle of Thornbrook without it. “I started experiencing these episodes when my mother’s mental health began to degrade. Gradually, it bled into other parts of my life.” Confrontations, looming decisions, things vast and complex and beyond my grasp.
His expression turns inward for a time. “That makes a lot of sense. I struggle with a lack of control in my life as well.”
This isn’t about me. I will survive, as I have always done. If the Orchid King has sent his hounds, I will face them. But I worry for those I love.
“What about Mother Mabel, the Daughters of Thornbrook? Are they in danger?”
