I snapped my head up, heart hammering like a caged animal.
“Baby, it’s morning.”
It was. The night had slipped away while I was lost in that other world—where the shadows chased me, where time folded and twisted until I couldn’t tell what was real and what was fear.
A single tear slipped down my cheek, and before I could stop it, Drogo was there—arms wrapping around me, pulling me close like I might shatter. His bare chest dampened with my tears as he knelt beside me, a silent fortress. Warm, inked, trembling just enough that I felt it against my skin.
His eyes—those fierce, beautiful blue eyes—were soft, clouded with something I hated: pity.
I hated pity. It made me small. Invisible. Like I was already halfway gone.
I thought about the terrace—how easy it would be to step off and free him from my ghosts. But I was too much of a coward to leave him with the mess.
Instead, I wiped my tears roughly and forced myself to meet his gaze.
He held me so tight I thought I might break under the pressure, but I didn’t care.
Kisses rained softly—forehead, cheeks, hair.
His eyes searched mine, desperate and raw, begging me to hold on.
And then I saw it—behind him, lurking just out of reach—a dark, twisted shape.
It was more than shadow. Ragged long limbs curled like claws scraping stone, cold breath slipping over my skin like ice. The thing whispered words I didn’t want to hear.
But couldn’t block out.
Suddenly, the panic was suffocating.
The shadows crept closer, tendrils wrapping cold fingers around my arms and legs. My lungs seized, burning with cold fire. Breath ragged. Desperate.
I felt the first scratch bloom between my shoulder blades—hot, deliberate, like a signature.
The room shrank, walls bending inward like a trap designed just for me. Cold claws pulled at me, dragging me under.
And then—
I was on the floor, cradled in Drogo’s arms.
His tears hovered but never fell, as if he held back the flood just for me. He rocked me gently, murmuring wordlessly, pleading for me to come back. His hands trembled as they brushed my hair from my face.
“Baby?” His voice cracked.
I forced a smile, weak but real. “Your breath smells.”
He laughed, a rough bark of humour, wrapping his arms tighter around me like a shield.
“Fuck you,” he said, and for a moment, the world held still in that laugh.
Later, he made us coffee—the warmth a small rebellion against the cold that chased me.
“Have you slept?” he asked quietly.
“No,” I whispered.
“You have to.”
“I can’t, Drogo. I have a deadline. Talking takes time. You know that.”
