Darien slid an arm around her shoulders and pulled her snug against his side. Her heart picked up speed at the contact; he could hear it as clearly as the cicadas humming in the palm trees. The feel of her aura flush against his made his skin tingle, made him want to have her closer still.
They sat in silence for a while, the scroll fluttering under the paperweights. With Sabrine safe, there was only Loren to worry about. And Darien wouldn’t stop worrying, wouldn’t stop trying to figure out what this scroll meant and how the Well was created.
If they could find the Well, they might be able to destroy it—to get rid of it once and for all and make Loren safe again.
But he couldn’t stop thinking about that part of the scroll—the part that said it could not be replicated, nor destroyed. If that were true, would he ever be able to make her safe again?
Darien peered down at Loren to see that her eyelids had slipped shut. She was slumped against his side, her mouth parting as she drifted off.
Hewouldmake her safe again. Nothing bad would happen to her.
Not while he was still breathing.
—
Loren was fast asleep in her suite at Hell’s Gate when something cold and wet slapped her in the cheek.
Groggy, she sat up, untangling herself from the blankets that had ensnared her limbs. Utterly confused, she peered into the darkness of her bedroom.
A moment later, another cold, hard object hit her in the forehead. She hissed, pain blooming across her skin. “Hey!” she exclaimed, turning toward the unlit fireplace, where the object had come from.
Ice, she realized. Ice chips.
Mortifer had made good on his promise.
Loren made to say something, but the Hob threw another ice chip. “I’m awake, you pest!” she whispered.
She turned her attention toward the door then, watching the sliver of golden light beneath it for any sign of movement. If the Hob had woken her up, that meant Darien must be having a rough night.
Boots struck the floor as someone walked down the hallway. She watched as a shadow briefly blotted out the light under her door as that someone made for the staircase.
She had a pretty good idea who it was.
Loren swung her legs over the side of the bed, slipped her feet into her fuzzy slippers, and tiptoed into the hallway. Before she closed the door behind her, she whispered, “Thank you.” She wasn’t sure if Mortifer heard, but she had a feeling he did.
She had just made it down the stairs to the entrance hall as Darien was donning a dark gray jacket. His jeans were ripped and blackened with old blood, and his boots were the same bloodied-up pair he was wearing the first time she had tried to stop him from leaving the house at an ungodly hour.
His eyes were also as black as they had been that same night as they snapped to her face.
“What are you doing up?” he asked, his voice flat.
Loren stepped off the bottom stair she was lingering on, her fingers trailing off the polished handrail. “I heard you leaving, and I wanted to see if you were…” Her voice faded as it felt like someone punched her in the stomach. The grief that was etched into his features was so unbearable to look at, she almost couldn’t squeeze out the words. But she managed to finish her sentence with a whispered, “I wanted to see if you were okay.”
She wasn’t sure how it was possible for his face to crumple when he already looked so broken, but it did.
“I haven’t been okay since I was fifteen,” he said in a hoarse whisper. The year his mother had died.
Loren felt her heart ice over and splinter.
And as Darien ducked his head and stalked toward the front door, one hand gripping the strap of the duffel that was slung over his shoulder, Loren hurried forward and blocked his path to the door. The wood of that door was cold as ice through her pyjama shirt as she pressed her back flat against it and looked up at him. He was mere inches away from her, looking more torn than ever, looking desperate to get out of here but more desperate not to disappoint her.
She held her hands out to him, palms up. He dipped his head slowly and studied her palms for a long time. And then, finally, he placed one of his hands in hers, his fingers trembling slightly. His hand dwarfed hers, and a heat that was deep and inviting spread from his skin to hers.
“I want to try something,” she whispered.
Darien’s eyelids slid shut. “Loren.”
“Humor me.” She closed her fingers around his hand and gently tugged him toward the living room. “Please. If this doesn’t work, you can go to your fighting ring. I promise.”
