I rest the cup against my belly with a sigh. “The power. Did the storm take it out?”
I peer at him, trying to resolve his features in the dim light. It must seem like I’m staring.
And then—Iamstaring.
At how familiar he is.
He shifts, watching me watch him. “You speak of power?” he asks in that voice, and I want him to say more. But he doesn’t. He’s waiting for me.
I swallow hard. He looks like the ghost from my room. The guy in my dream.
Then I see his clothes. The tunic, laced at the collar. The kilt.
A rush of adrenaline slams through me. I sit up so abruptly the cup clatters to the ground.
“You.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just dips his chin. “Aye.” He squats at my knee, gathering the cup. “And you.”
My breath hitches. “You were in my room. I saw you.”
A pause. “As I saw you.”
I knew it. And yet, hearing him admit it unnerves me.
Ghosts are supposed to be seen. They don’t do the seeing.
And this one…this one just touched me.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay. I’m done now.” I’d thought the whole supernatural thing was exciting. It’s not. “When I open my eyes, you’ll be gone.”
“’Tis nae like that.” His voice is hoarse. Uncertain. “Please, dinnae be afraid.”
His hand finds my shoulder again. Tentative now, barely there. I flinch, but his thumb strokes slow circles, and heat blooms through me, down to the bone.
He’s solid. He’s warm. How can he be a ghost?
I inhale deeply, cracking my eyes to a squint. Our gazes collide. He snatches his hand back, like he’s just as shaken as I am.
A cold trickle of fear spirals through me.
The taish is created at the moment of death.
Oh.
Ohno.
A dull ache clenches my throat. “Am I the one who’s dead?”
“No.” A quick, sharp shake of his head. “Nobody’s dead, lass.”
I dreamed of him. Maybe this is just another dream. I pinch myself—isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?—then pinch again, harder. It hurts. But I don’t wake up.
“Be easy,” he murmurs.
His hand hovers over mine before settling, a whisper of warmth on my skin.
This time, I don’t pull away.
