Page 135 of Stormbreaker

“Sure,” he says as he opens his drawer, selects another book, and settles back with it. I don’t recognize the title, but I get the feeling he’s uncomfortable with my gratitude, so I leave him to it as I put away the rest of my things.

When I’m done, I grab a pair of pajamas and head to the bathroom to slide into shorts and a tank top. Then I exit to find Rook also dressed for sleep . . . though “dressed” might be too strong a word. He’s changed into a pair of soft black pants and nothing else.

He’s stretched on his bed, ankles crossed, with his book balanced on his chest. I stand momentarily paralyzed by the curve of his biceps and the swell of his shoulder. His fingers tap against his flat stomach, and it’s the first time I’ve had the chance to really appreciate the tattoos covering his arms. Sinuous lines of rivers and jagged mountains spread over his skin like a map to lost treasure.

Sensing my attention, he glances over, and I quickly look away, my cheeks heating. I scurry to the other side of the room and slip under the covers, shivering as my skin hits the cool sheets.

“Let me put on a log,” Rook says into the dark. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I say as he crosses the room and throws some wood on the fire. He pokes it a few times, blowing on the embers before the flames crackle to life.

“If you get cold at night, just shout,” he says. “I can put more on.”

I nod as our eyes meet, orange flames dancing in the forest-deep pools of his irises.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say thank you again, but I don’t think he wants that. Something tells me he likes to be needed. To be useful.

Finally, he turns away and returns to his bed.

We both fall silent, and I tuck my hands under my cheek, watching him read.

Between the painkillers and the events of the last few days, I feel like I could sleep forever.

“Good night, Rook,” I mumble as my eyelids grow heavy, hastened by the warm fire and the soft rustles from across the room.

“Night, Trouble,” are the last words I hear before I’m gone.

49

My dreams are plagued with a string of nightmares.

I see my parents with empty black eyes, looming over me.

Brick and Silla with claws and sharp teeth, lumbering on stiff legs as flesh rots off their faces.

I fall, tumbling through nothing until I land on hard stone, my body shattering into pieces.

Trinity turns away to reveal another face on the back of her head.

Lacey screams.

Domino is bent and broken.

Teddy ripped to shreds.

The static sounds of fabric tearing and the heavy thump of cotton.

I bolt awake, covered in cold sweat, wincing at the throb in my wrist.

It’s early, with only dusky morning light filtering through the small windows. The sky is quieter down here, less insistent on being noticed. Likely another reason Rook chose this spot.

It takes me a moment to realize the shower is running, and his bed is empty. I stare at the bathroom door, totally not imagining what he looks like with water running over the dips and grooves of his chest and abs. I don’t give a second thought to the thin wall separating us.

I catch myself, mortified at my behavior, and settle back, picking up my phone for a distraction. Every morning, I reach for it with the tiniest flicker of hope that my mother has decided to break our stalemate, and every morning, I find myself disappointed.

There’s still nothing from Trinity, so I swallow my frustration and fire off a message, asking if she wants to meet up later.

Then I type a note to my mother, telling her about my injury. My finger hovers over the send button, and I’m worried I won’t be able to handle the disappointment if she doesn’t respond.