I sink back onto the bed and close my eyes. I try to find the connection with Eryx and fail.
Over.
And over.
And over.
It’s well and truly gone.
I lift my hand and tug on my magic. It flares golden on my fingertips, ready to follow my command. I tug harder and itbrightens. But it doesn’t make claws. It doesn’t have a line of inky power running through it.
And more than that, it feels empty.
Eryx took from me the one thing I had—choice.
A soft knock comes from the door. When I don’t answer, it slowly opens and there’s Eryx.
He’s dressed as if he’s been up for hours, showered, got ready for the day.
I stare at him, remembering what I said last night.
His gaze drops. “Morning.”
I don’t reply. There’s one thing I still control—letting him in.
“I know you’re mad.”
That’s not even the start of it.
“There’s breakfast.”
He’s talking about everything but what he did. I sit up and throw the covers off. I slip my feet into my slippers and walk out of my room to the kitchen.
He follows.
When I enter, Darla greets me. “Good morning.”
“Morning.”
I make a plate and head to the dining room to eat. Eryx does the same. We sit at our usual places.
I feel his eyes on me, the weight of his stare. But I don’t glance up as I force myself to nibble a slice of toast, bite into a sliver of avocado.
We eat like that, in silence.
When I can’t stomach any more food, I take my plate back to the kitchen and Darla. Then I go back to my room and lock myself in.
I might have to see him, but I don’t have to speak to him.
I do the same thing at dinner and breakfast the next day, and lunch, and dinner. I walk with him to the dining room, but I don’t say one word.
On the third night, Eryx puts down his fork and knife.
“Chelsea, can we please talk?”
“No.” My voice is dry. My words brittle.
“Please.” He folds his hands over his plate. “About this. About us.”
