Page 128 of A Thief Among Fae

What is he doing? Shadow-wielding?

A pulse of violet lashes outward, striking the grass. It’s too dark to tell if he’s wrangling shadows or if that strange energy summoned something. I hate seeing the twist of pain on his face—the way his legs kick as if he’s fighting ghosts. How could I live with myself if I let him suffer like this?

I have to wake him up before whatever he’s afraid of happens. Before someone gets hurt, including himself.

“Desmond,” I call out, crawling toward him.

Another violent shudder racks him. Purple sparks scatter harder this time, streaking across the air in crooked lines. The air suddenly smells of rot, and the strange energy presses against me like the warning crackle before a storm. My chest burns from the inside out, my breath stalling as if my lungs refuse to pump air. Every instinct I have screams at me to retreat.

Instead, I crawl closer until the air is so thick with the suffocating energy that something inside me feels terribly wrong, my heart palpitating, my hands trembling.

Too winded to speak, I try to scream into his mind. Desmond! Wake up! I grab his shoulders and shake him, tears pricking my eyes. It stings, as if the moisture within me is being sucked away, leaving my eyes too dry to see. Every second I stay near Desmond hurts.

I should leave him alone exactly like he warned me to. But the look on his face as he twists, groaning, teeth clenched⁠—

He looks like he’s dying.

Another broken sound tears from his throat as he thrashes. I grab his head, jerking it to face me. Then I press my forehead to his. Listen to me, I try to speak into his mind. The nightmares aren’t real. Wake up!

His eyes snap open. He surges upward with a snarl, faster than I can react. His bound hands slam against my throat and drive me backward onto the ground. The breath punches from my lungs.

Purple light blazes in his eyes. For one horrifying second, he looks at me like I’m something he needs to kill as he pins me down with his body.

I claw at his hands. “Desmond—” I choke out.

Recognition crashes over his face. The light vanishes, and he scrambles away, breathing hard enough to shake. “Fuck.” His voice breaks apart. “Cynthia—” The horror on his face is worse than the hands that had pressed against my throat mere seconds ago.

I cough hard, sitting up as the withering pain inside me still throbs. I want to tell him I’m alright, but it would be a lie.

He rushes toward me again. His fingers tremble as they brush against my throat, as if I’m something delicate that he’s irrevocably broken, and he hates himself for it. He stares at the red, angry marks, his face paling with nausea. “I’m sorry. I never meant—I shouldn’t have let you stay.”

Nodding slowly, I whisper, “I know.”

Then he lunges for his flask and holds it up to my lips. “Drink,” he begs. “It’s one of Maeve’s strongest healing tonics.”

It’s so bitter that my stomach turns, but I gulp it down until I feel whole again. Then I push the flask away. “What happened?”

“I almost killed you.” The sentence comes out hollow, but I feel his fury so strongly that it overpowers every sense I have. Hot, writhing anger, and shame burning bright beneath it. It’s all directed at himself. “You have to go back to the inn,” he says, not a request, but an order.

He expects me to cower from him and run away, but no matter how badly he might wish I would, I feel him mourn the one thing he so desperately wants.

To be seen not as the Prince of Death, but as Desmond.

Levitating a dagger toward us, I cut his bindings. “No. I told you I’d stay.” However dangerous it seems now doesn’t matter. I won’t reinforce his fear of himself. “Now lie down. I want to try something.”

Desmond stares at me with so much disbelief that my chest aches. “You need to get as far away from me as you can.”

Instead of listening, I wrap my arms around him, squeezing him tight. He draws a sharp breath, unnaturally rigid like a man who has forgotten how to be held.

“Your Gift only leaks out when you have nightmares, right?” I ask him. That’s why he can control it if he doesn’t sleep.

Slowly, he nods.

“Then all we have to do is make sure you don’t have another one. Simple, right?”

He scowls. “That is as far from simple as you could possibly⁠—”

I raise my finger to his lips, shushing him. “The second you fall asleep, I’ll go back to the inn. Promise.”