Page 25 of Resurgent

In my place sat a little boy, four or five years old, with raven-black hair and beautiful blue eyes identical to the ones I’ve seen in the mirror every day of my life. Small and terrified, he was completely defenseless as the monsters from my past closed in around him.

And then he looked at me—reached for me—

“Mommy…”

But there was nothing I could do to save him.

The first cry I heard as my dad hovered over him woke me, and only then did I realize the noise was coming from me. Short of breath, drenched in sweat, and desperate to never have to experience that again, Dean Stevens got her way.

Now, I spend an hour every morning staring at my assigned therapist's face on my screen, falling into flashbacks of the attack that I’d rather compartmentalize than face.

Memories I'd convinced myself had long since faded come rushing back with brutal clarity. The confusion of waking up one morning and realizing my mom wasn't coming home. The first time I watched my dad drain an entire bottle of bourbon in a single day. The first time I heard him beg her to come back. And the first time he pulled off his belt and beat me because she'd laughed in his face when he asked.

By the end of the calls, I feel far too exposed with every emotion on display—ugly and raw.

But despite the roller coaster we can't seem to halt, she ends each session reassuring me that I'm making progress. She tells me how impressed she is that I'm finally leaning into the breathing techniques she's been swearing will help me over time.

I don't have the heart to tell her the truth.

That every long deep breath isn't truly progress—it's fear.

Fear that I'll never find my way back to myself. Fear that my body won't fully regain it's strength. And worst of all—the bone-chilling fear as the little boy from my dreams steps forward, taking my spot once more in my mind.

Chapter ten

Annalise

“Tyr, can you hum or something while you hunt?”

“Excuse me?”

“Until Matt gets here, I'm out of homework to do to distract me. My phone is dead, so I can't ask him to hurry up, I have no idea how to work this stupid music system Korr has, and I’m about three minutes away from admitting myself into a mental hospital to get a break from this obnoxious silence.”

A strange, uneven grumble flows down the bond, and I immediately regret ever asking him to do that.

“If you think that was bad, you should have heard the horde's thoughts when they heard it down the horde bond, too.”

I snort, envisioning the flickers of confusion and horror they fought to conceal, unwilling to risk the wrath of the moody departing alpha.

“Did the fact that I’m a dragon who, shockingly, does not listen to music, escape you?” Tyr teases, feeling my amusement, but not knowing what caused it.

“One hundred percent my bad,” I laugh.

“It is. Now read one of your books or something, Little Faren. You have to be ready for your tests next week since you've pushed so hard to go back.”

“I hate when you’re right.”

“Really? I thought you’d be used to it by now.”

Rolling my eyes, I send a teasing middle finger down the bond before mentally ending the conversation between us.

The quiet's easier to sink into now that I have a purpose.

I should be working through the worksheets on border villages, studying the photos from recent attacks, and memorizing damage patterns before the test Major Calderon is requiring Korr to proctor in two days. Instead, those papers sit untouched on the coffee table as I curl into the corner of Hunter's oversized couch, my legs tucked beneath me and a blanket draped across my lap more out of habit than necessity.

Quickly, I lose myself in one of the history books Matt brought over. Page after page pulls me deeper into the past, each account more captivating than the last. Forgotten Kings rise and fall beneath my fingertips. Alliances are forged, broken, and reforged by political marriages. Wars are won by strategy as often as steel. Hours seem to slip away unnoticed as I absorb every word, hungry for answers I hadn't even realized I was searching for.

A low click pulls my attention toward the front door.