Black liquid smoke and fire enveloped her. Alive and solid, drowning and lifting. Glowing purple eyes that were cold, so cold, stared down at her. A tendril of icy darkness crept forward and kissed the shard along her collarbone.
What are you, child?
She jolted upright to a dark room, the Veil shard shrieking in agony. Her body trembled as if that deep, gravelly voice was still reverberating in her bones, and it took all her effort to shuck the blankets off and swing her legs over the side of the bed. Cold sweat—not blood—tickled her skin and clung to the oversized shirt she wore.
Oh, gods. Not just sweat.
Shadows writhed along her bare legs and hands, twisting over each indent of muscle in gentle caresses. The smoky lines curled, forming into the shapes she’d been drawing last night.
“Brela?” Cason’s voice cut through the throbbing in her head.
No, no, no.
She blinked and the shadows were gone, or maybe had never been there in the first place. She squeezed her eyes shut as a burning hand rested on her shoulder.
He hissed. “Four hells, you feel like a block of ice. Are you okay?”
Shit. Were her eyes purple? Had she just used shadow magic sleeping next to a man who would kill her for it?
“One second,” she murmured.
Acting on memory alone, her hand drifted to the table next to the bed. Her fingers found the thigh sheath easily and she dragged the knife to her lap. As carefully as she could through trembling hands, she inched the blade out of its sheath and chanced a look at the reflection.
It was an effort to hide her exhalation of relief, but she knew her shoulders betrayed her, Cason’s hand still resting as he waited. Despite the heavy touch that should have assured her she was no longer dreaming, she stuck the tip of the blade into her finger. Another sigh of relief escaped her lips as the blood welled under the prick of pain. Awake. Real.
Sucking on the small wound, she returned the knife to the table and focused on slowing her heart. She whispered her grounding words. Her name was Brela, she was sleeping next to Cason at the castle in Severina, and this was sweat, not blood.
Cason’s hand, now tracing up and down her spine, left her skin tingling underneath the damp shirt. It took Brela a few minutes to remember that she was supposed to say something else, say somethingtohim. No one but Elias and Farrah had ever been awake with her after a nightmare.
He hadn’t spoken in those terrifying last moments, where Brela wasn’t sure if she’d have to sprint out the door without an explanation just to hide her possibly purple eyes. She might have been able to get to the bathing chamber to put a quick illusion spell on herself, but then she’d just elongate the problem. She’d be spending the next few weeks with him. The longer she hid her eyes with shadow magic, the longer they’d remain purple underneath.
Someone along their trip to Valisea would pick up on her lack of scent, if Cason didn’t figure it out first. Someone would sense the shadow magic and she’d get herself and her friends killed.
The next time Cason’s hand reached her neck, Brela reached back and wrapped her fingers around his. For a moment, she cherished the feeling of how perfect his hand curled with hers. How their callouses seemed to fit together and their skin seemed to sigh in relief as the different temperatures melded, a sharp contrast to the shrieking he often elicited from the obsidian in her collarbone.
It could never last—the fire and darkness—but that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy it now. Couldn’t focus on it and let it ground her further.
Brela never allowed Farrah and Elias apologize for waking her when their nightmares plagued them, and she’d never said the words herself, but for some reason, they were the only words she could form.
“Sorry for waking you,” she mumbled, letting her thumb run along the back of his hand.
Though she was terrified to see his face, Brela forced herself to turn toward him and had to hide the shock that rippled through her. She couldn’t even appreciate his bare chest and those incredible tattoos when she was struck speechless by his expression.
Understanding. And while there was a hint of guilt, he didn’t look at her like she was broken or in need of saving.
“It’s not a problem,” he said softly. “I was half awake anyway.”
She believed him. Honestly, she would hate to have his perception magic, and at his strength, she was sure she’d jolt at a mouse’s squeak on the other side of the castle.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“I…” Brela paused. She wasn’t going to say she was fine, because even though she was, everyone always seemed to think it was a deflection to hide that she wasn’t actually okay. Shewasfine. Not great, not terrible, just stuck in that middle ground offine. She settled on the more appropriate truth. “Just a bit unsettled.”
“I can tell. You’re still trembling.”
Cason didn’t prod any further, those steel blue eyes watching her with patience. Thank the gods it wasn’t anger, which meant he hadn’t seen the shadows wrapping around her skin.
Brela blew out a breath and ran her free hand over her forehead, wiping the dampness off on her shirt.Hisshirt, she realized. She’d slippedhisshirt on before they fell asleep because he’d offered it. Because he’d felt comfortable sleeping next to her with his ink on full display.
