He was staring down at me.
Leaving Ben to deal with the body, same as last time, and I suspected most of the time, Tobias came down the stairs.
He did not look like the man who had watched the sea snakes strike. He did not look like the man who had calmly explained why Mark was here, or the man who had told me to sit and watch and promised I could have anything I wanted if I was only good.
He looked like the man from the dream.
Not exactly.
Worse, maybe, because this was real.
He descended through bands of blue light and shadow, one hand trailing along the rail, his eyes fixed on me with an intensity so complete that I forgot, for one breath, about Mark on the catwalk above us. By the time his shoes touched the floor, my pulse had begun to move strangely, too fast and too heavy, like my body could not decide whether it wanted to flee or stay exactly where it was.
I didn’t move.
I only watched him approach.
My legs were folded beneath me, my hands tucked against my knees, and for once, I had no sarcastic comment ready. No question. No accusation. The whole room felt too large and too close at the same time, water moving behind glass, snakes disappearing into darkness, Ben’s footsteps and grunts overhead, and Tobias coming toward me like I was the only thing in the wing he could still see.
He stopped in front of me.
For a moment, he only looked down.
I looked up at him silently, unsure what I was supposed to do with my face, my hands, my breathing, any part of myself. I had watched what he wanted me to watch. I had stayed where he told me to stay. I had been good, I guessed, though the word felt strange and sickly inside my head now, tangled with fear and praise and the warm scrape of his nails through my hair.
Tobias lowered himself to his knees in front of me.
The movement startled me more than it should have.
Maybe because Tobias did not kneel like someone diminishing himself. He knelt like he was bringing himself closer to something sacred. Like getting on my level was not a loss of power but a deliberate act of devotion.
His hands lifted slowly, giving me time to flinch.
I didn’t.
Maybe I was too tired. Maybe too overwhelmed. Maybe some part of me had been waiting for him to touch me since the moment he started down the stairs, and I hated that possibility too much to look at it directly.
His fingers brushed along the sides of my face with such care that my chest hurt.
“Cove,” he murmured.
My name sounded different in his mouth now.
Not careful.
Not warning.
Not coaxing.
Reverent.
I swallowed, but no words came.
His gaze moved over my face, searching for something. Permission, maybe. Forgiveness, though that was impossible. Proof that I was still with him in whatever way he needed me to be.
Then he drew me forward.
The embrace was not sudden, but it still stole the air from me. One of his arms wrapped around my back, the other cradling the back of my head, and he pulled me against him as if the distance between us had become something intolerable. His body was warm and solid, his shirt smelling faintly of saltwater, clean soap, and the expensive cologne he wore so lightly I only noticed it when I was close.
