A stark realization dawns …
“There’s only one bed.”
Two of us.
Rhordyn begins scrubbing the dishes. “Perfectly aware, Orlaith.”
Panic nests in my throat, threatening to stunt the breath flowing in and out of my lungs.
There’s not one part of me that doesn’t want to share a bed with this man … except my conscience.
“I’ll take the armchair,” I say, wandering toward it. “I’m smaller. And it’s right by the fire, so I’ll be nice and cozy.”
“I don’t plan on sleeping. You’ll take the bed.”
The words pack the room so full of mortar it leaves no space to wiggle.
Guess I’m taking the bed, then.
Chewing my lower lip, I look at the lumpy armchair that appears far too small for him …
I find it hard to believe he doesn’t intend on switching off—it’s been a big day. But I’m not about to insist we share the bed. Not when I don’t trust myself not to roll into his atmosphere while I’m sleeping. To do what I’ve been wanting to do since I saw him on the beach alive and well and whole.
Hug him.
Love him.
“Okay,” I murmur, padding over to the bed and climbing in, nestling under the covers before I remove my towel and drop it onto the floor. Rearranging my pillows, I find a comfortable spot with my stare speared at the ceiling.
Rhordyn finishes cleaning up, the rain still hammering the windowpanes, though the lightning seems to have calmed. He moves through the room to stoke the fire and fill its belly with a lump of fresh wood, then settles into the chair, springs squeaking beneath his weight.
I draw a deep breath, release it slowly, scared to close my eyes for fear of waking up and realizing it was all a dream. That I’m still in Parith, pretending my heart belongs to another man. Or that Ididwake on that beach, but Rhordyn’s not here at all.
It’s just me, alone with my demons and a ghost that haunts my broken heart.
I tip my head to the side, seeing if I can pick apart the illusion …
He’sabsolutelytoo big for the chair, filling it so completely, arms crossed over his chest as he stares out the window, perhaps watching the rain splash against the panes.
He looks real—better than real.
Thisfeelsbetter than real.
Perhaps that’s why I don’t trust it. Like we’re tucked in a bubble prone to pop.
My eyes snap to the ceiling again, and I rub my tightening chest, fingers brushing against my jewel. I lift it, peering into the fathomless blackness—the same inky tone as the gems on Baze’s ring.
I pinch the latch Gunthar pieced back into place, rubbing it between my fingers, remembering that horrible day when I woke beneath a blazing tree wearing tattered scraps, surrounded by lumps of fried flesh.
By people I hadslain.
I remember the way Zane’s mother stared at me when she burst into the room, like she was looking into the eyes of a ghost. I remember the chill that seeped through my veins as she released an anguished sob.
“Someone recognized my … fake skin,” I whisper, focusing on a bundle of dried daisies hanging from the strings draped across the ceiling.
Little dead suns staring down at me.
The air tightens, like the room just packed full of something I can neither see nor comprehend.
