"Get in the bed," he commands.
I blink. "What?" His change of moods is like a whiplash on my skin.
"The bed," he snaps, pointing to the massive mattress behind me. "Get in it."
"My Lord, I?—"
"Do not make me drag you."
He doesn't wait for me to comply. He grabs my wrist and hauls me toward the bed. He shoves me down onto the velvet coverlet. I scramble backward, pressing myself against the headboard, my knees drawn up.
I expect him to tear my dress. I expect the final violation.
But he does not undress. He does not touch his belt. He climbs onto the bed fully clothed, boots and all. He sprawls out beside me, on top of the covers, lying on his back and staring at the canopy.
"Sleep," he says.
I stare at him, baffled and terrified. "You... you want me to sleep?"
"I want you to be unconscious," he says, his voice flat. "When you sleep, your mind... drifts. The barrier softens. The calmspreads." He closes his eyes, his features drawn and haggard. "I need the dose, Leora. I need the poison to drown out the memory of Malek's laughter."
I do not understand him. Does he want it or not? One minute, he was as ferocious as a wild beast, and now, he is calm.
He reaches out, his hand blind, seeking. His fingers wrap around my ankle. It is not a caress. It is a shackle. He grips my ankle tightly, anchoring me to him.
"If you try to leave," he murmurs, "I will know. And I will not be so restrained a second time."
I sit there, frozen. The storm batters the window. The room smells of spilled ink and the metallic tang of his distress.
He lies there, a dark, beautiful ruin of a man, holding onto me because I am the only thing keeping him from falling apart. He wants to kill me, but he is sleeping beside me because the silence I offer is more precious to him than his god.
Slowly, cautiously, I lower myself down. I lie on my side, facing away from him, curling into a ball. His hand remains on my ankle, a heavy, cold weight.
I close my eyes. I try to build the wall again, but I am too tired. The exhaustion pulls at me, dragging me down into the dark.
I drift. The sound of his breathing, ragged and uneven, eventually slows, matching the rhythm of the rain.
Hiss.
My eyes snap open.
The room is dark. The fire has died down to embers. Imas is asleep, his grip on my ankle loosened but not broken.
Hiss.
It sounds like steam escaping a pipe. Or a snake sliding over dry leaves.
I sit up slowly, my heart rate spiking. "Imas?" I whisper.
He does not stir.
Interloper.
The voice is not in the room. It is inside my skull.
It is a sound that has no business existing in a human mind. It is wet and ancient, a slithering, coiling vibration that wraps around my brain stem and squeezes. It tastes of old blood and copper coins.
I clap my hands over my ears, but the voice laughs—a dry, rasping sound like scales rubbing together.
