Clearing my throat, I stare at his lips, fixating on them instead of his eyes as I try to find the strength to speak, but it’s me who is distracted this time.
I eliminate the distance between us, pressing my lips against his gently, and my world shatters into a million pieces. His hand finds its way to the back of my head, deepening our connection as he swallows my groan, and my leg hikes over his thigh, desperate to be closer to him.
All too quickly, he leans back, tearing his mouth from mine, leaving us both panting as he shakes his head and gapes at me with blown pupils. “You’re going to be the death of me,” he grumbles, and I smile. He exhales slowly as he drags the pad of his thumb across my lips, and I shiver. “No more distractions, Ivy. Let me into that pretty head of yours,” he insists, and I sigh.
When it’s clear he’s not going to falter on the matter, I remove my limbs from his and shuffle to sit up with my back pressed against the headboard. My gaze scans across the others, who all seem to remain asleep, before I return my attention to the man beside me.
“How was I killed?”
The words leave my mouth, and he darts from the bed, hightailing it over to the window in a flash. My heart races as I devour his every movement, watching as he curls his hands into fists on the window frame, unable to look at me.
Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he sighs, his head dipping for a moment before he glances over his shoulder at me. “I don’t think I’m the best person to answer that,” he starts, and my back stiffens.
“Did you kill me?” I blurt, and his eyes widen as he stands tall.
“No, of course not.”
Confused, I toss back the blankets, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and press my feet against the floor. He doesn’t try to stop me or help me, and I’m grateful for the independence it offers. Rising to my full height, I take a few steps to join him at the window. The second I’m within arm’s reach, he pulls me into his embrace, my back to his front as he rests his chin on my shoulder.
I’m quickly distracted by the view outside, the sky clear and dotted with stars. I feel like I’m floating when I’m watching them, tiny and inconsequential in comparison. I’ve always loved how the stars twinkle, like balls of heat eager to lure us into the unknown.
“You really want to know?” he whispers, and I nod.
“Band-Aid,” I confirm, just like I did with my brother, and he inhales sharply.
“You were taken in the dead of night from Teddy’s bed. With Hugo’s guidance, we were able to find you at an outpost between Kingdoms Two and Three. When we arrived, you were locked in a room with them and we couldn’t get in.”
“Band-Aid me, Archer,” I repeat, the story twisting and weaving around my lungs, suffocating me.
“Fuck,” he grumbles to himself, his forehead resting against my shoulder for a moment before he stands tall. “It was your father.”
My body turns to ice with disbelief, but the warm patch from his hand to my hip confirms his words. My father played a part in my death?
“Why would he do that?”
He shrugs. “He seemed to be following his instincts and taking a guess on your abilities,” he mutters, rage laced into every word as I shake my head.
“So he killed me?” His silence is answer enough. “How?”
“Angel,” he whispers, his fingers flexing at my sides, as if the memory is too painful.
Gulping, I persist. “Please, Archer. I have to know.”
“He put a bullet between your eyes, Ivy. Right there, while we were trapped on the other side of the door. I willneverforgive myself for not making it to you in time.”
I spin on the spot, stars forgotten as I look deep into Archer’s eyes. The sorrow is real; I don’t need his magic to confirm that for me. I cup his face with my hands, inching closer so we’re nose to nose before I speak. “You didn’t pull the trigger. This isn’t on you.”
“You should hate me,” he retorts, and my eyebrows gather in confusion.
“Archer—” I start, but he shakes his head.
“You do hate me,” he whispers, and I scoff, refusing to listen to his nonsense as I grab his hand and tug him back to the bed.
If we’ve disturbed anyone, they don’t show it as we take a seat on the side of the bed.
While my mind reels with the knowledge of what my father is capable of, I opt to focus on lightening the mood for both of us. “When do you think my memory will return?”
He offers me a tight smile, draping his arm around my shoulders as he continues to hold me in some way. “It could be anytime. Dr. Holland mentioned that the severity of your memory loss can be connected to the intensity of your death, but he doesn’t have any actual experience, only the information he’s researching.”
