Wick shoves the bag into my hands. “Beau, will you help Wren to his bed, please?”
“I can walk myself to my bed,” I protest. The words come out slurred.
All three of us freeze.
I feel the moment it happens, the lag between my brain and my mouth, the way the syllables smear together like I’m drunk. Heat rushes to my face. My stomach drops.
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. It comes out just as bad.
Beau’s eyes widen. Wick goes pale.
And then the floor moves. Not literally, but it might as well. One second I’m standing there with the paper bag clutched in my hand, and the next the room lurches violently to the left. My vision tunnels. A roaring fills my ears. My knees buckle before I can catch myself.
“Wren!” Beau yelps.
I reach for the counter and miss.
My foot tangles with Beau’s as he lunges to grab me. Instead of catching me, I crash straight into him. He makes a startled squawk as we go down in a tangle of limbs, chairs scrap loudly across the floor around us. My shoulder hits first, then my hip. Pain flashes white hot through my side.
“Sorry,” I gasp.
Beau is pinned half under me, his curls in his face and one sleeve twisted around his elbow. “You are much heavier than you look.”
“Sorry,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say. My heart pounds too fast. Everyone in the bakery has gone silent. The humiliation is a hot, choking thing in my throat. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.”
Hands grab at me. Someone says my name. Maybe Wick. Maybe Beau. Or Talon.
The paper bag crinkles in my fist. Then it bursts. A cloud of powder explodes right in my face. I inhale on reflex. The taste is sweet and bitter at once.
“Oh no,” Beau says faintly.
The world slows. Sound stretches as if I’ve been shoved underwater. The lights above me smear into pale gold streaks. Wick’s face appears over Beau’s shoulder. My limbs suddenly weigh a hundred pounds each. I try to push myself up and manage nothing more than a twitch of my fingers.
“No, no, no,” I mumble. Or maybe I only think it.
The powder hits all at once. My body goes boneless. Panic slices through the fog.
I can’t fall asleep here. I can’t. Not like this. Not without warning. Not in the middle of the bakery with my heart hammering and Lord Yelling waiting for me on the other side of unconsciousness. Fear claws up my throat so violently it hurts. I try to fight it, to cling to wakefulness with sheer stubbornness, but the magic drags at me harder and harder, pulling me down, down, down.
“No,” I whisper.
Someone touches my face. A warm hand cups my cheek. It’s grounding.
“It’s okay,” Wick says, his voice sounds distorted and far away. “We’ve got you.”
We. Not just him. For one second, through the blur swallowing my vision, I think I see Talon barreling toward me panic carved across his handsome face.
But maybe that’s the dream starting already. Maybe I only want it to be him. I try to say Talon’s name. My tongue won’t work. Everything goes dark at the edges.
The last thing I feel is someone lifting me, strong arms bracing under my knees and back, and the frantic beat of my own heart slowly, helplessly giving in. Then consciousness leaves me.
22
TALON
I wish Wren had told me his dreams were this bad. Of course, I noticed he’d been avoiding sleep. He’s been yawning into his coffee, blinking too slowly, drifting off in the middle of conversations and jerking himself awake like he’s been caught doing something wrong. I noticed the way he’d go rigid when I suggested an early night. The way he’d smile too brightly and kiss me to distract me whenever I asked if he was okay.
I just thought he was being stubborn. I thought maybe he was restless. I thought if I gave him time, he’d come to me when he was ready. I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad. Didn’t realize he was walking around half dead on his feet while Lord Yelling haunted every second he closed his eyes.
