The room I’m in is rustic. It’s styled the way I imagine a cozy cabin in the woods would look. It has a wall of books on the left side, above which are two long windows.
A fireplace burns in the wall I’m facing, soft embers from logs that appear to have been alight for hours. There’s a table and a few chairs scattered around.
Every surface seems to hold something, whether it’s books or bowls or other objects that I don’t recognize.
My focus returns to Roman, to his dark lashes resting against his cheeks, the unruly sweep of his dark blond hair, and the shadowed growth across his strong jaw. He's no longer in armor, wearing an old, gray T-shirt and faded jeans that have what look like car oil stains across one thigh, as if he spends his days fixing vehicles, not instilling terror in other demons.
I’m about to whisper his name when his eyes open. Slowly. They’re startlingly black and for a few stunning moments, I can see myself reflected in them, my violet hair spread across the pillow, my smoky gray eyes wide. There’s a dark bruise across my cheek, which I guess I should have been expecting. I can’t imagine how the rest of my body looks.
As soon as he sees I’m awake, Roman is immediately alert. His eyes clear, back to sea-green, and he leans forward, carefully brushing a strand of hair from my face.
“Nova?” His voice is a deep rumble. He studies me intently, casts a brief glance at the steady ripple of colors across the material, and then back to me, his thumb brushing my cheek as he waits for me to respond.
“Where am I?” I rasp.
He exhales, as if he’s relieved that I’ve spoken. “This is my home. You’re safe here.”
I take another quick look around. I’m not sure I ever dreamed I’d be safe inRune’s home.
“What am I wrapped in?” I ask, my voice clearing as I use it. I struggle to move my arms within the cocoon, feeling somehow more vulnerable than when I was in pain.
He places his hand on my shoulder, the pressure of his palm registering through the thick material. “Stop.” He lowers his voice. “Please.”
I’m a little startled by his quiet request, so unlike the hardened warrior he presented in Zilron.
He waits a moment for me to lie still before he says, “I’m skilled at the art of death and pain, not healing. This cocoon is not as strong as my other runes. It’s fragile, but it’s dealt with the poison and it’s healing your wounds.”
“The colors?”
“They indicate your heartbeat, breathing, and temperature,” he says, drawing his fingertips across my forehead before lightly pressing the back of his hand to it. “You’re much cooler now, but I need to check your injuries.”
I swallow. My voice is small. I’m fucking worried about what’s hidden beneath this cocoon, but I’m trying not to show it. “I don’t feel any pain. Is that a bad thing?”
He shakes his head. “It’s a good thing. If the poison and acid were still at work, you’d be in agony right now.”
While relief fills me, Roman’s jaw clenches. “The bats only attack when they perceive a threat to their young. Crone’s curse left them mindless.”
Reaper said the same thing—that they shouldn’t have attacked us.
Roman’s voice grows increasingly harsh, but he reins it in with a slow exhale. “But the trail of magic in her curse allowed me to find you.”
I remember how difficult it was for us to track Koda on Earth—because elite demons, like me, can’t be tracked, the shields around our emotions protecting us from being sensed.
Roman reaches for the side of the cocoon, slowly peeling a strip of material off. It vanishes as soon as he withdraws it. A faint blur of magic is the only sign that remains.
“Crone wants me dead,” I say.
Roman gives me a short nod as he carefully peels another patch away. Each one is so thin that it looks like he’ll be removing them for hours. “The odds are stacked up against you in these trials, Nova.”
I try to steady my shaky breath, but then a jolt passes through me, a heart-sinking realization.
“Wait…” My gaze darts around the room, trying to judge the time of day from the brightness outside the windows. “How much time has passed?”
Despite his firm palm on my shoulder, I struggle against the cocoon, sudden fear coursing through me.
“You’ve been healing for more than a day,” he says, both hands pressing on me.
“More than a day? I need to move. I need to get back—”
