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She nodded; even that simple action caused a new bolt of pain to zip through the muscles and into the base of her skull. “The tissue swells up and hurts. Makes the migraines worse.”
Roman came closer. One step. Two. “It’s your choice.” His voice was softer now. “I understand if you don’t want to live with the pain, but I don’t think you should run from your magic forever. If you want my suggestion, I say find an alternative that doesn’t suppress the magic but helps with the pain and the swelling.” He walked away, his shirt brushing against her arm as he passed. She hated herself for breathing in the scent of his cologne as it washed over her like a tidal wave. “Of course, it’s only my opinion,” he called over his shoulder. “What do I know?”
Shay stared at the few drops of rain that were drying in the pool—the pool that had been cleared of debris and dirt, likely thanks to Roman. It didn’t escape her that he’d had enough faith in her to clean it out.
And she’d barely caused a sprinkle.
“Shayla?”
She turned just in time to catch the apple he tossed her way. A green one.
Roman flashed her a handsome grin that showed off a dimple she’d never seen before. “Nice catch, small fry.”
52
Roman’s House
YVESWICH, STATE OF KER
When Loren woke up, it took her a few minutes to remember where she was.
Sunlight filtered weakly into the room, the rays falling across the puffy, cream-colored blankets she was bundled up in. Through the window, she could see the craggy hills of Yveswich piercing a sky of slate gray. Magpies bickered in the yard, but Loren refused to count them.
Paws padded on the hardwood. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and sat up. Singer stood on the floor beside the bed—looking up at her with floppy ears, one drooping more than the other.
“Hey, buddy,” she whispered.
He wagged his tail, the motion sending tendrils of black mist curling through the room.
Loren braced herself before throwing the blankets aside, the cool air raising a chill on her skin. She stood and tiptoed to where her bags sat on the dresser.
“Let’s go get ready,” she said to Singer, who continued to watch her, tilting his head from side to side whenever she spoke. “I’m starving.” It smelled like someone was already making breakfast—waffles or pancakes, if the toasty, buttery smell was any indication. And coffee. Her stomach growled.
She pulled on a white sweatshirt overtop of her pajama top and made her way to the bathroom to go pee and brush her teeth. Her hair was still partially damp from her shower last night, making her feel even colder. She dried the last of it with a blow dryer and fought through the tangles with her paddle brush. Before she went downstairs, she found her slippers tucked into a side pouch in her bag and slipped her feet into them.
And she might’ve passed Darien’s partially closed door at a slower pace than necessary. She wondered if he was up yet.
The kitchen was alive with activity. Paxton, Kylar, Joyce, and Eugene were eating breakfast at the table, while Ivy, Jack, and Tanner made waffles—well, more of them. The table was cluttered with pitchers of juice, bottles of maple syrup, bowls of fresh blueberries, and plates stacked with hot waffles.
Loren drifted into the room, unsure how to go about announcing herself. This whole situation still felt so bizarre.
And the Darkslayers looked more like an ordinary family than they did the heartless killers rumor spoke about.
“Morning, Loren!” Ivy said. Her cheery smile made Loren immediately feel more at home. “Hungry?”
“Very.”
“Have a seat. We’re making blueberry waffles. There’s some on the table already—go on and help yourself.” She dipped her finger in the batter and poked Jack in the nose with it.
He wiped it off with the back of his hand. “Gross.”
“Can I help you with anything?” Loren asked.
“Relax—you’re our guest!” Ivy shooed her toward the table, bits of batter flinging off her fingers. Technically, they were all guests here, but Loren wasn’t about to argue.
“Coffee?” Tanner offered. “There’s also tea.”
“Tea, please. But I can get it.”
