Page 188

She pushes herself upright, her movements unsteady and dreamlike, lacking the sharp awareness that usually defines her every action. The cloak slips from her shoulders, pooling around her waist, and she doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t seem to notice the cool air against her skin.

She is still asleep.

I step closer despite myself. “Little mage.”

No response. Not even a flicker of recognition at the sound of my voice. She turns her head slightly, as if listening to something I can’t hear, and then her attention fixes on me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.

Her movement is slow, almost hesitant, like she’s moving through mud or fighting against invisible restraints. Her hand lifts, fingers extending toward me with purpose that seems to come from somewhere deeper than thought.

Her fingers catch the front of my shirt, curling into the fabric with surprising strength. Her hand tightens instinctively, like she has found what she was searching for without ever knowing she was looking. Something inside me breaks. Or perhaps it finally stops fighting.

I close my eyes briefly, trying to find the will to step away, to gently disengage her fingers.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter, the word barely more than a breath as she crashes against me, making me stagger back.

Instinct overrides everything else.

I catch her before she can fall, one arm wrapping around her back while the other steadies her shoulder. The moment my hands make contact, she melts into me, all the rigid tension that has defined her for days dissolving into something soft. Her head finds my chest as if it belongs there, fitting perfectly beneath my chin, and the rightness of it sends an uncomfortable jolt through my entire system.

My breath catches.

“You fight the bond when you are awake,” I murmur, more to myself than to her, knowing she won’t remember these words. “And this is what happens when you stop.”

She makes a small sound against my chest, neither agreement nor protest, just a soft exhale. Her fingers haven’t released my shirt, and now her other hand joins the first, both fisting in the fabric like she’s dangling from a cliff, and I am her only anchor.

The bond hums in response, a vibration I feel in my bones, in my blood, in every part of me that recognizes her as mine, even though she chose him over me.

I lift her easily, her body folding against mine as if it has done so a thousand times before. She’s lighter than she should be, evidence of days spent training, of nights spent fighting sleep instead of resting. Her head stays tucked against my chest, and when I adjust my hold, she burrows closer, seeking warmth or comfort or simply contact with the one her sleeping mind has decided is hers. For a moment, smug satisfaction washes over me, knowing she sought me out and not Arlo.

The walk to our room passes in a blur. Her breath against my neck. The silk of her hair brushing my jaw. Her fingers maintain a death grip on my shirt, even though I’m holding her securely. Every step brings new awareness of how perfectly she fits against me.

By the time I reach our room and the bed, I am already aware of the problem.

I lower her carefully, supporting her weight as I try to settle her against the pillows. The moment I attempt to pull away, her grip tightens dramatically. Her fingers twist in the fabric, knuckles white, and a small sound of distress escapes her lips. Her expression shifts, peaceful sleep giving way to something restless and anxious, like the bond recognizes the threat of separation and rebels.

I still, bent over her, caught between her grip and my own unwillingness to force the issue. I could break her hold easily; vampire strength against human fingers would be no contest, but something stops me. Perhaps it’s the memory of her exhaustion during training. Perhaps it’s the knowledge that this is the first real sleep she’s found in days. Perhaps it’s simply that I’m tired of fighting what feels increasingly inevitable.

I try once more to ease away, moving slowly and carefully, but her response is immediate. Both hands tighten, her whole body tenses, and the bond itself seems to protest, sending sharp pulses of wrongness through my chest.

She stares with vacant eyes, proving how the bond is its own entity when rejected. So I lay down beside her.

The moment I settle, her grip loosens slightly, though she doesn’t let go entirely. Her body shifts closer instinctively, drawn by the same pull I’ve been fighting for weeks. Her head finds my chest again as she crawls to straddle me, her warmth bleeding through my clothes.

The bond quiets instantly, settling into a gentle hum of satisfaction that makes my eyes close involuntarily.

I let my hand rest lightly against her back, telling myself it’s just to keep her settled, just to prevent her from waking, just for a moment.

That moment becomes just for an hour. Just until she settles becomes just until she’s deeply asleep. Each excuse leads to the next, a chain of self-deception that I’m too tired to fight.

Her breathing deepens, becoming slow and even against my chest. The last of the tension leaves her body, and she melts into me, boneless with exhaustion. Finally, her bond gives permission for her to rest. One of her hands releases my shirt, only to slide across my chest and curl against my ribs.

I close my eyes and tell myself I will leave before she wakes up.

Another lie to add to the collection, but for now, I let myself believe it.

CHAPTER 57

• Alessia •