She continued to whimper, her hands clawing at the mattress, her head shifting side to side.
He tried again, a little louder. “Cass, wake up for me. You’re good.”
Her hands stilled, then her head, but she still didn’t open her eyes.
Worried, he decided to risk touching her. He covered her fist with his hand and squeezed. “Come on, Cass, open your eyes.”
Her lashes fluttered, and when they finally rose, she stared blearily up at him. For a second, he swore they were milky white, but with the only light being a thin ray from the hall, the shadows were heavy in the room, so it was probably his imagination.
She blinked once, then twice, and when she spoke her voice was scratchy. “Grayson?”
“Yep,” he said, unable to hide his relief. “I’m right here. You okay if I turn on a light?”
The hand under his twitched. “Sure.”
He traced the illumination rune on his nightstand, and a low glow lined the edge of his headboard, nudging the shadows back. He turned back to her. “You okay?”
Cass tugged her hand out from under his and awkwardly pushed herself up until she was sitting tailor style. She pushed her tangled hair back from her face, and her gaze darted around before coming back to him. “Sorry. Bad dreams.”
He couldn’t help but notice the fine tremor in her hands. “Probably should have expected that, considering recent events.”
She licked her lips then caught the lower one in her teeth before nodding.
Recognizing her discomfort, he gave her knee a squeeze and stood up. “How about you take a few minutes then meet me in the kitchen? We can discuss our dinner options.”
She looked at the blackout blinds holding back the early-evening sun and frowned. “What time is it?”
“Closing in on six. I’ve got some groceries coming, but it’s up to you whether we eat in or out.”
“In,” she quickly responded.
“Sounds good to me.” He turned to leave. “I’ll see you in the kitchen.”
“Okay,” she said quietly, the word following him out.
Chapter 7
Cass
It took Cass twenty minutes to pull her shit together. Unlike what she’d told Grayson, it wasn’t a nightmare that had stalked her but a kaleidoscope of potential futures. Most of them were centered on her family. Maybe she should have expected it, considering the amount of stress she’d been under, but foolishly, she hadn’t. She’d gone to sleep with the heavy shadow of grief over losing her yaya, worried about Sofia, angry at her parents, bemused by the man waiting in the other room, and haunted by ghosts of a past she didn’t want to deal with. That had been enough to tempt fate into messing with her head.
She stood in the neat bathroom, hand under the running faucet, and stared at her reflection. The warm water ran over her palm, but she barely felt it as she tried to recapture the images that chased her from sleep. She edged around a jumble, trying to bring them into focus, but they remained indistinct. The emotional resonance was easier to untangle—shock, hurt, then a strange sense of rightness—but it still wasn’t enough for an actual seeing, which left her beyond frustrated. This was not an uncommon occurrence when it came to her Mystic-based abilities as an Oracle, especially after the stunt she’d pulled as a teenager, when her use of a second-rate hex to bind her clairvoyant abilities had broken something intrinsic with her magic and almost killed her.
But desperate times and all that. A desperation born of a soul-shattering loss, along with the unrelenting demands of her parents, especially those of her mother, had backed her into a corner where she’d finally considered death as an actual escape option. If not for her yaya’s quick thinking, there was no way she’d be alive now. She wouldn’t have met Isa and Des or chosen to make amends as best she could. With age and hard-won wisdom, she knew if she could go back to her younger self and slap some sense into her, she would, but what was done was done, and all she could do was deal with the results, no matter how murky they were.
Granted, the magic that memory mages like Oracles played with was wildly unpredictable, which was why they needed mad skills and a titanium will, especially if they wanted to remain sane. There were three classifications of magic: Elemental, Mystic, and Divine. Memory mages were in the psychic-based Mystic class. They further branched into four categories—Sage, Muse, Oracle, and the rare Divine version, Sibyl. Each one required years of rigorous training for memory mages—even the gods-maddened Sibyls—to wield their abilities effectively. Oracles could see all the various futures based on current decisions, a step up from Sages, like her mother and sister, who saw past events and accurately foretold future possibilities. One of her friends, Shelby, was a highly respected Muse who’d spent years refining her work with magically manipulated or trauma-induced memories, earning a top spot in her field. It was Shelby’s mentor who, at Yaya’s request, had shared the critical tools that allowed Cass to function in the maddening world she’d found herself in after the self-imposed hex had been broken.
“Cass?”
She jumped at Grayson’s voice and blinked, the sound of running water filtering back in along with a steady beep.
He stood behind her, frowning, her phone in one hand, the other on her shoulder. “You okay?”
Flustered, she dropped her gaze, yanked her hand out from under the now cold water, and shook it off. She turned off the faucet and grabbed the nearby hand towel. “Sorry. Kind of zoned out for a minute.”
“I heard this go off a few minutes ago.” He held out her phone. “I knocked when it kept going, but when you didn’t answer…”
She took it from him and hit the button to silence it as she did her best to ignore the urge to lean into him. He was radiating heat that slipped through the flimsy barrier of her sleep shorts and oversized T-shirt, leaving goose bumps in its wake. “Thanks.”
