The guards shifted nervously, not at ease until they had tossed him in the dank cell and thrown away the key. They retreated, eager to leave Théo’s dire warning in the cold dark.
Théo was alone, breath fogging. His chest panged with a rasping cough. But he did not scream for help. He did not fight to free himself. He only settled on the rough stone, closed his swimming eyes, and prayed to the Goddesses one last time.
Darkness pooled, wrapping around me and pulling, pulling, pulling.
I felt unmoored, both awake and asleep. In the dungeon with Théo, and in the warmth of the cottage, Harkin by my side. I tried to remind myself that the dreams were not real, no matter how vividly they appeared to me.
But there was the vague inkling, yet again, that the dreams were getting stronger. Where they had once been a mere wash of color and light and muffled sound, I now experienced them as if I were truly there. I feared they might overtake me.
Chapter twenty-seven
Seren
The brilliant light of midday sliced through my vision, a blade of gold at my temple. My pupils constricted to pinpricks, light dancing off my gray eye and absorbing into the depths of its brown sister. I blinked heavily as I adjusted to the brutal wash of day across my dream darkened mind.
The room was quiet—fire dwindling to the dregs, a heap of fine ashes across the hearth. A blanket was tucked around my shoulders, soft in a pattern of blues and greens. I smelled the lingering hints of amber and pepper that Harkin had imprinted upon it. This was the blanket he slept with.
I lifted my weary head, propping my elbow upon the armrest.
Harkin lay opposite me, his tall frame tucked tightly into the corner of the settee. His shoulders were uncovered, the blanket he had seemingly placed upon me not long enough to stretch fully over us both.
Our legs tangled together in the center, as if we had reached for each other in sleep. Sock clad feet pressed against warm thighs. Ankles brushed muscular calves.
I leaned forward slowly, so as not to wake him, and tucked the blanket gently beneath his chin. My fingers lingered at the edge of the fabric, the backs of my knuckles just barely brushing against thestubbled skin of his neck. I watched the steady rush of blood at his pulse point. The light turned his curling hair to a rich, gleaming shade of brown.
I was suddenly too aware of the tight braids woven into my own hair. The feeling of his fingers against my scalp returned, gentle and warm. It had not been a dream, after all.
Harkin had taken the time to plait my hair as I drifted into sleep, knowing it was how I preferred to wear it. That I was too overwhelmed with exhaustion after such heavy mágik use to accomplish the feat myself.
A wash of discomfort rushed through me at the sheercomfortabilityof it all. I could not remember the last time I had felt peace or calm or safety. The feeling of wanting to connect with another person. To let them in to see the deepest, darkest parts of myself and not shy away.
My chest squeezed painfully. This was my enemy—a person I hated. Or, at least, he was a person Ihadhated. So why were my heart and lungs suddenly too large for my chest?
I sucked in a rattling breath.
The entire world began to tilt, upending on its axis.
I gripped Harkin’s shoulder involuntarily, the press of my fingers holding me steady. His eyes shot open, and I was drowning in molten gold and liquid brown. His brow furrowed, and he reached toward me, fingers pulling at the bottom of my braid with open affection.
I lurched backwards, feet tangling with Harkin’s and blankets twisting around my legs. I crashed to the worn wooden floorboards with a groan.
“Ren?” Harkin pushed himself up, stretching his limbs as he rose from the settee. He tugged gently at the blankets, unraveling them from my legs.
My face burned. I stared resolutely at the ceiling, refusing to make eye contact as I sucked in breath after breath. My chest still felt deflated. “The… The weather broke.” I gestured lamely toward the sunlit window. “We should train.”
“We should,” he agreed.
I was already pulling myself off the floor, moving too quickly toward my cloak and boots by the door. “Good. Great.”
“Ren?”
“Yes?” I refused to meet his eye. My hand rested upon the door handle.
“Everything will be okay.”
“Oh, I know.” Such an insignificant response.
How had he done that?I wondered.Did he know how much I needed those little reassurances?
