My mouth is right by his ear, and I whisper, “Gabe, it’s me. Wren.” Obviously. Who else would it be?
He moans, but the sound is quieter than before. That’s a good sign, right? It must be, because my forehead cools slightly and there are no new sparks.
“Gabriel?”
Another soft moan.
I pull my hands away from my chest, exhaling. They’re normal, not a spark in sight.
“You have to wake up.” I lace our fingers together, squeezing his hand like it’s the only thing keeping me sane and grounded, and maybe it is. “I need your help.” I draw in a strangled breath and whisper, “I needyou.”
There it is.
The moment the words slip from my lips, I realize how true they are. For all the ways the Hunter tormented me in the past, pursuing me relentlessly, I need him. I wouldn’t be here without him... and I don’t want to be.
“I need you,” I repeat more loudly. The words brand themselves on my heart. “I can’t do this alone.”
The mere thought of tackling everything without Gabriel has me feeling sick to my stomach, and my Mark flares.
And that . . .
That must stop right fucking now.
I can’t hurt him. Iwon’t. More than ever before, I’m reminded I need to get my magic under control. If not for me, then for Gabriel.
I focus inwards, taking deep, steady breaths. I count backwards from ten, concentrate on the steady beat of my heart, and think calming thoughts.
And when I finish counting and reopen my eyes, my forehead isn’t as hot. The sparks are still gone, and my Mark has cooled.
Because . . .
I gasp, squeezing the Hunter’s hand. “I need you to wake up, Gabriel. I figured something out. My magic, my emotions, they’re all connected. At least, I think they are. And I need...” I swallow past the growing lump in my throat. “I need you to wake up because things seem easier with you by my side. Less... horrifying.”
And there have been a lot of horrifying things, lately. Too many to count, really.
I hold my breath, the next few seconds feeling like an eternity before green eyes open and meet mine.
12
A CRIMSON PREMONITION
GABRIEL
There is a special kind of pain that comes from knowing that your parents—the very people meant to love you unconditionally—harbor hatred for you in their hearts. It twists you up inside, making it difficult to see things properly.
When I was a young boy, crying out as my father’s whip left the skin on my back in tatters, I wondered why he despised me. He seemed to love Severus, my half brother, but he never extended that same sentiment to me.
The whippings were punishments, according to him, but I had no idea what I’d done to deserve them or his wrath.
Even with blessed salve, I’d have to spend a few days on my front after his brutal visits, letting my back fully heal. On those days, Grandmother Marilla used to come and sit on the edge of my bed, softly stroking my arm as she filled my ears with stories.
Sometimes, her tales were of this land. She’d talk about old magic that used to exist during times long since passed, when Esyn and the other gods and goddesses walked the land. Other times, her stories were more fantastical in nature. They involved mythical creatures and were dark in tone.
Even at my young age, I didn’t mind the darkness. After all, Grandmother’s tales reflected the world in which we lived.Finding light and joy in King Andreas’s court was a difficult task on the best of days—and I didn’t have many of those.
Grandmother Marilla had a favorite story she came back to again and again, one of dark, flying beasts that spewed fire from their mouths. The monsters had crimson eyes that were embers of wrath and enormous bodies the size of houses. Their talons could skewer a person with a single touch, and they were feared all across the land.
Dragons.
