“Good girl,” he says, so different from when Faust said it to me.
Slowly, he unwinds his hand from my waist, then drops his other from my mouth. He takes one step back, and cold rushes in to fill the gap between us.
I can’t move.
I’m too shaky.
Lightheaded.
I glance down and see my bag, like he brought it when he ran after me. Because the panic is sending signals to my body todo somethingdespite my dizziness, I quickly lean down to swipe up the duffel, but when I try to come back up, gray spots pop in front of my eyes.
My feet feel clumsy, unsteady.
And before I know it, I’m falling.
Sylvan rushes in, catching me before I hit the ground. He simply scoops me up, one arm beneath my back, the other under my legs, then he’s cradling me to his chest like I’m nothing but a child.
I can’t protest, because the spots are still there.
Everything is fuzzy.
I’m going to faint.
“Breathe,” he instructs me, his voice the clearest thing about my surroundings.
I can’t move my arms, lolling at my side, because my limbs feel numb.
But I listen to him.
Sips of air through my nose.
“Now out through your mouth,” he instructs, clinical and demanding. Almost like Faust. Almost, but colder.
I do as he says.
“And again.”
Slowly, on the fifth breath, the dark sky overhead clears. The buildings surrounding us in the alley come into view.
I’m not about to faint, and my fingers tingle and blood returns to them.
But I’m not in any position to squirm down from his hold.
Reluctantly, I shift my gaze to his.
Gray-silver irises. Too intense.
A lock of blond hair fallen just above one eye.
He has such a beautiful nose.
I suppose the devil really was an angel, wasn’t he?
Then he narrows his eyes, the cold prominent in the cut lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose.
“Now we’re going to get you some fucking food.”
FORTY-TWO
