Nothing lands.
It’s empty.
I toss it to the side, hear it shatter. Hands bunched against my ears, I wait for the pain to ease; for me to feel less like blown glass ready to burst.
“I’ll send for more caspun,” he says, blotting my chin, my lips, my nose. Pressing his frosty hand across my forehead.
I lean into his touch like it’s the only thing tethering me to this world.
“It could take a few weeks to get here. You should have told me.”
“You’renever here ...”
He makes a sound akin to a rumbling thunder storm, molding my body so I’m curled to the side in a comfortable position that offers no content.
I’m still broken. Still splitting at the seams.
Still trapped on the edge of a cliff, trying to see past the endless sea of darkness at my feet.
I know I have to jump, but I have no idea what’s down there. No idea what I’ll see.
What I won’t be able tounsee.
“And you’re taking too much at once. Is that why you’ve been relying on the Exothryl?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, figuring my silence is answer enough.
He growls, the sound a tangible flutter against my skin. “I’ll be rationing you from now on.”
I open my mouth, but he pins it shut with the stamp of his hand. “Don’t argue with me on this. You will lose. I’ve obviously been far too complacent.”
Complacent? How aboutnonexistent. A shadow in a room. A specter that only shows when you least expect it to.
Like now.
Why is he here? He never climbs Stony Stem for any reason other than to receive my blood or confiscate my heart-popping narcotics.
I’m about to ask, but he tugs the wool blanket up and tucks it over me, then nails it down with a powerful arm wrapped over my body.
“You’re h-h-hugging me,” I chatter out, feeling as if I’ve been dropped into an icy lake with stones tied to my ankles.
Caspun may be effective, but it has its repercussions.
“Yes,” he grits out, like he had to force the word past the bars of his teeth.
I peep over my shoulder, throwing myself into wells of quicksilver lit by the gleam of a slow-dancing candle flame.
“Why?” I rasp, and I hate how pathetic my voice sounds.
Something dark slides over his face—a mask slipping down—and I know I’m getting nothing else from him.
He might as well be behind that door. Down in his den. Anywhere but here.
“Go to sleep, Orlaith.”
Sometimes his orders make my hackles rise. Other times they make me fold at the stem like a flower crushed by the weight of a gusty wind.
Tonight, I have no energy left in me to fight, and ... I don’t even think I want to.
