Page 87 of Whisper of Nightmares

“I know. He’s not in Náströnd. That’s not what I’m saying.” She glances across the strange lands. “But if this is where the dead go to rest, then he is here somewhere, and I will find him.”

Now that the idea has formed in her mind, the possibility of finding him is freeing. Exciting.

She needs this.

Needs to know he’s alright.

“He might not be here at all,” Ash argues. “There are other realms for the dead. You said it yourself, your father was a soldier, right? If that’s true, you won’t find him in this cesspit. He’d be⁠—”

“Don’t!” Euphemia’s hand flies up, stopping him from saying another word.

She won’t let him ruin this.

He can’t take this hope from her.

Not when it’s been so long since she’s felt any.

What does he know about this place anyway? Somewhere conjured from her dreams and somehow connected to death.

She does not let herself admit that so far he has known quite a lot about this place…

Except one thing.

Himself.

Her plan is flawless. He has to see that. It’s the best way for them both to find the answers they seek.

With her hand still hovering between them, she realizes just how close she is to touching his skull. Her eyes scan the distance. When she meets his gaze again, he’s watching her with something like curiosity in his eyes.

Beneath his fur mantle, his chest rises and falls more erratically.

She hears him swallow hard.

Then Ash sticks his neck out. He presses his skull into her fingers and she sucks in a sharp breath at the warm touch. Now that the distance has already been severed, her curiosities piqued, she can think of nothing else but what she might find underneath this bone structure.

Her fingers trace along the jagged jawline.

They plunge into the shadows underneath. Something catches against her fingertips—coarse hair, rougher than she expected. A beard.

Her breath catches.

She follows the line of his jaw, slower now, until her fingers find the curve of a mouth.

Two lips, slightly cracked from dehydration, but human nonetheless.

Something like surprise flashes behind his eyes. Beneath the fur mantle, his chest stills.

Slowly, he reaches a hand up toward hers.

Before he can touch her, Euphemia jerks away—frightened by what that touch could do. What they might be unearthing together.

“So you see,” she says, straightening her skirts again. “I will be searching for my father, regardless of whether you want me exploring these lands or not. And you can either come with me and we can search together, or I will go alone.”

But he is barely paying attention to her now.

That hand of his has reached up through the space between his skull mask and his collar bone like he didn’t know it existed before. She can see the subtle movement of his hand moving back and forth, his fingers brushing along his jaw, over his chin, and Euphemia can imagine him wondering who he is beneath it all.

Withdrawing his hand, he says, “Fine. We go together then. But you must obey my every command from this moment on.”