A plush armchair sits beside the bed with a book resting on it.
“We take turns reading to him,” Tanzanina says, following my gaze to the book, “because too much silence isn’t good.”
Never let anyone silence you.
I clamp down hard on my lower lip, biting to stop the sadness welling within me.
“One of the Legion’s nurses comes every day to administer physical therapy to keep his muscles healthy and prevent bedsores.” Tanzanina talks as she heads to the drip and checks it. “I monitor the potions and, every day, I try new healing spells, but…”
She glances over at me, and her shoulders sink. She’s quiet for a moment before she says, “How about I give you some privacy?”
She glides to the door, but I call out softly before she can leave.
“Tansy?” It’s the first time I’ve called her by the name that her friends use, and I’m not sure if I’m allowed to, but I’m about to step into something I have no right stepping into, so I figure I can’t make it worse. “About Alexei Mason, the Master of the Dominion.”
Her expression instantly closes off, but she can’t hide her thoughts from me, just as Alexei couldn’t hide the way he looked at her outside the maze. He is renowned for being unfeeling, logical, and brutally efficient in dealing out death, but the spark between them is undeniable.
“Don’t give up on him,” I say.
The tension in her shoulders eases. “I won’t.”
Her eyes glisten with tears I’m certain she won’t allow to fall in front of me before she closes the door behind her.
I take myself to the chair, every step feeling leaden.
Over the past month, each time I went out into the night, I heard the whispers among supernaturals. The assassins are all human—or supposed to be—but they are fully aware of the magical and supernatural world, and their entire network seems to have spread the story about what Striker did.
The whispers talk of him doing the impossible, defeating a primordial being. But every whispered rendition of the story ends with Striker’s death.
Picking up the book, I settle into the chair, open it to the page marked by a well-loved bookmark, and begin to read.
I read and read until the light changes outside the room, and the words start to jumble on the page because it’s too damn difficult not to let my tears fall.
So I stop and let the silence settle before I reach for Striker’s hand, slip mine beneath his, and rest my cheek on top.
“I won’t,” I finally say, answering his final request to me. “I won’t let anyone silence me.”
Lifting my head away from his hand, I brush the tears from my cheeks.
“I’m coming back tomorrow.” I clear my throat. “But I’m bringing a different book. Something with more sunshine.”
Placing the book firmly back on the chair after I rise, I consider if the thrift shop might have an offering of literature. I’m sure I saw a row of bookshelves along one of its walls.
“When you wake up, you can choose which books you want me to read to you,” I say. “Until then, I’m afraid you’re stuck with my choices. And my choices will be based on my moods, so…”
I take a final swipe at my tears as I make my way to the door, forcing myself to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, maybe start planning the extremely delicious dinner I’ll eat from a can tonight, preparing myself for the dark hours of hunting?—
“I choose you, Fury.” The soft growl sounds behind me. “I will always choose you.”
37. PEYTON PRICE
My heart leaps so hard within my chest that my hand flies to it.
Oh,feeling.
That crisp lens through which I saw the world shatters, and now it’s flooding with chaotic color.
Is this what joy feels like?
