“Preston…”
Stop calling my name.
“Preston.”
Stop. Someone, make it stop.
“Preston!”
The low, growly voice drags me into the present. I realize I’m on the ground. The knife to my throat is the stick that’s being pulled from my fingers, one knuckle at a time.
My vision is blurry, my breaths chaotic as that ugly demon peers its head from the shadows.
But in the midst of it all, there are gray eyes. Hard. Distinctive.
Blood slides down his temple as he crouches, his hand catching my jaw—not hard, just firm enough to make the world tilt and lock.
“Look at me,” he says in a strong but not harsh command.
And I do because his breath is steady, his chest expanding in a soothing rhythm. In, out. A slow tide I didn’t know I was drowning in until it started to pull me with it.
I realize I’m matching him.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
The static fizzles, the lights stop flickering in my head, and the hum goes quiet.
My hand molds to my body again instead of feeling like a foreign object.
Marcus touches my forehead with his, his harsh yet grounding eyes still holding mine. Close. Not blinking.
Just there.
Like no one else ever has been.
As the heat bleeds through his forehead to mine, he whispers, “There you are, my prince.”
Something in my heart shifts, jostles, and breaks.
A disease. Itmustbe heart disease.
Because I refuse the very notion that my heart skipped a beat.
Ridiculous.
11
MARCUS
Preston ran away.
Again.
