Shaking his head, he left the door closed and went back to his own room.
The stack of papers waiting on his desk was tall; his brother was even more behind with these things than he usually was, and so Tarron had offered to help. He had started this task earlier, in his proper study on the floor below this one, but he hadn’t finished it. And it could have waited until morning, but Tarron was eager to get back to it.
His brother accused him of being addicted to work, but Tarron didn’t see it as purework.He enjoyed it too much—the numbers, the notes, the written correspondence with the various lords and ladies of their realm. He liked making lists. He liked checking things off, and wrestling things into order and keeping them there. It made him feel calm and in control.
It calmed him enough that, eventually, his mind was going blissfully numb. His eyelids fluttered open and shut. The stacks of parchment became tempting pillows, and his head grew heavy, dragging him downward.
Just a quick nap…
A loud crash woke him—one that came from Leanora’s room.
He was on his feet in an instant, racing through the narrow passage to that room. He flung open the door and stopped, taking in the sight before him.
The bedside lamp was on the floor, along with a water glass that was now in countless sharp and shiny pieces. She had knocked it all over—and no wonder, with the way she was flailing about in her sleep. She looked like she was caught in the throes of a terrible nightmare. But other than that, she appeared to be safe.
He exhaled slowly.
His first instinct, again, was to let her be. If she was to be his wife, then it meant that there were far more frightening things on her horizon than nightmares. Fae politics, for starters, were not for the faint of heart.
And yet he couldn’t seem to make himself move.
What was it that kept him there, staring at her, waiting for a sign that she had escaped her bad dreams? Pity? No; he rarely bothered to show pity, and she didn’t strike him as the type that wouldwanthim to show it, besides.
Something else was making him stay.
And then something else made him walk toward her.
Something else made him kneel at her bedside, take the ring from his finger, and slip it over hers. It was an old family heirloom, that ring, and its calming magic was powerful. It shrank and grew to fit the wearer; he watched as it glowed faintly for a moment before settling onto her much smaller, more delicate finger.
Warmth blossomed in the space around them.
She inhaled deeply, greedily—as if she had just resurfaced from a near-drowning. After several gasping breaths, a shudder went through her entire body, and then she began to relax. She was still tossing and turning, but the movements were less violent now.
Tarron took hold of her arm, trying to keep her still. His hand slid down to her wrist, felt the alarmingly quick pulse there. Every pounding beat drove his powerful senses a little more wild; the storm of sound and movement and scent that surrounded her was chaotic and hard to sort through at first.
But after a minute of kneeling beside her, he became aware of individual things. Quieter things. The pout of her lips. The stubborn furrow of her brow. And beneath that odd scent of hers was…another scent. A less nauseating one. It reminded him, however faintly, of honey and roses.
Her pulse finally slowed.
And then, strangely enough, his seemed to slow as well— almost as if it wanted to match hers.
He let go of her arm and studied her for a moment longer.
Just putting the ring on her had been enough to settle her; he hadn’t even needed to speak that ring’s stronger magic into existence. Not surprising though, was it? Humans were weak, and so even weak magic was enough to overtake her mind and calm it—more proof that he was right not to let his feelings for her grow; he wasn’t convinced she was strong enough to last at his side.
He stood up and started for his own room, but paused in the doorway and glanced at his stolen bride one last time. She had kicked most of her blankets onto the floor, he noticed, and now she was curling into a ball, clearly shivering. Cold, even with the warmth of his ring’s magic.
With a sigh, he doubled back and covered her up once more.
Chapter 7
Sephia felt as if she was being cradled by a cloud. She was drifting through a warm, bright place somewhere outside of reality, and she didn’t want to wake up.
When was the last time she had slept—truly slept—like this?
But it didn’t last.
All too soon, something was nagging at her, trying to rouse her.
