Killian’s smirk widens, and he steps closer. “I understand that you’re upset with me right now, Meryn, but it will pass, I’m sure. You’ll come back to me. You think you could be a queen without me ruling by your side? You’ll never be able to lead a whole country.”
Killian’s arm whips forward terrifyingly fast. He seizes my chin with the same easy ruthlessness he used to grip my magic.
I try to wrench away from him, and his long fingers tighten, squeezing painfully.
His face is so close to me now, his lips barely a breath away as he says, “You aremine. I’ll fight for us, forever. And I will never let you go.”
Once again, I shove him violently away, and then I turn, sprinting into the darkness. The shadows coalesce around me, tightening.
I’m spinning.
My head knocks backward against something violently, and I see black.
When I open my eyes again, the dreamworld is gone. I’m back in my room, back in my bed, tangled hopelessly in my sheets. I fight against them, twisting, my heart beating so fast that I can’t quite catch my breath. And then I look up and nearly scream.
Someone is standing over me, bathed in shadows.
“Meryn,” Stark says roughly. His expression is tight. Concerned, I think—lips drawn into a thin line.
My face is wet, and I taste salt. I’m crying. Goddess, why am I always crying these days? As my heart starts to calm, I realize I’m drenched in a cold sweat.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, not sure how I should feel. My stomach is a writhing mess from that encounter with Killian, and yet something about Stark’s stern presence in my room calms me. Instantly.
After everything we’ve been through together in the past couple of days, my body seems to recognize something my head struggles to understand: Stark makes me feel safe.
“Anassa felt fear through your bond, but she couldn’t get through to you. She told Cratos,” he says stiffly.
I wonder if that was all. If maybe my emotions were strong enough to leak through all the way to him, too.
Swallowing, I glide my hand over my hair. He’s breathing hard, too.
“And you came.” I eye him and lift a brow. “Running?”
He shifts his weight to his other side. His hands are in tight fists. “Are you all right?”
“It was just a bad dream,” I reply instantly, not wanting to talk about it or relive it. All the same, my blood warms. Can he tell I’m lying? Can he sense it through the bond?
He’s standing so close that his musky amber scent fills my senses, washing the foul sting of Killian’s memory out of my mind. I have the strangest urge—perhaps my own, perhaps from our wolves’ bond—to lean up toward him, to wrap my arms around him, and to accept his strength, his protection.
He’s here, and Killian is not.
Stark straightens. His fists don’t uncurl, though. He clearly doesn’t believe me.
“I see,” he finally says. He looks away, glancing around the darkened bedroom, and I see it through his eyes. This has been my space for all of twelve hours at most, but already the surfaces are covered in discarded clothes, maps, journals.
I didn’t bring much with me from the Rawbond quarters, but what I do have appears to have exploded into a mess everywhere.
I’ll clean it up in the morning. Or I won’t. Whatever.
Stark’s nostrils flare in obvious disapproval, and my momentary fondness for him evaporates. Hewouldbe a neat freak.
He clears his throat and says, “I apologize for disturbing your sleep. You should try to get more rest.”
I realize suddenly that my arm is warm. There’s a sensation of lingering sensitivity. I think Stark touched me to wake me.
“Right,” I say distractedly. “Well… good night?”
There’s no responding emotion on his face. He just turns on his heel and leaves quickly, like he can’t wait to flee my chaotic pit.
