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Mira didn’t breathe. It’s just the wind, she told herself, and stumbled backward until she collided with something solid. She turned around and stared into Dawson’s gray eyes. The coldness that emanated from him made her blood freeze. He had never looked this distant.

“You’re late,” she said, catching her breath.

His eyes narrowed. “Missed me, did you?” Normally, he would make a sarcastic comment with a half grin that would drive her mad, but tonight his mouth was set hard. Even his voice seemed icy.

“Just eager to get to work. I think I have the right formula now.”

Without another word, he grabbed her by her arm, but this time he didn’t pull her close. Something seemed off. When she stepped closer, she could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“You’re drunk,” she said, surprised, because he didn’t look it. He didn’t sway; didn’t slur his words. Every move was as precise as ever. Either he had a high alcohol tolerance or he was so tightly controlled at all times that even what she assumed to be a large amount of whiskey wasn’t going to break him free of it.

His jaw muscles tightened. “Alert the elders.” His words were clipped, sharp around the edges.

She wanted to ask him what was wrong, but this was Dawson. He would tell her to fuck off.

Without another word, he coin traveled them to the lab, and even that seemed different. Stormy. Not quite as measured. Right before they arrived, she felt it. He had masked it so perfectly, he had her fooled—until she detected a slight tremor in his hand.

When they popped back up at the lab, the signs of agony were etched onto him. His muscles were tense, his teeth biting together, sweat forming on his forehead.

“You’re in pain,” she said, worried, scanning his body for obvious injuries.

“It’s nothing.” His response sounded agitated as he opened the door to the lab.

“You shouldn’t be coin traveling with an injury.”

“I said it’s nothing,” he hissed between his teeth.

She lifted her hand to cast a diagnostics spell, but before she could, he grabbed her by her wrist. His hand with the Shadowflame pointed at her jugular, and dark shadows formed, licking at her main artery with promise.

She swallowed hard, feeling the coldness of his Dark Magic press against her neck, unsure of what he was going to do next. Never had she seen his eyes like this. Shards of ice. Cold. Hateful.

“I…I was just going to see if I could help you,” she stammered.

It took a second for his expression to soften. Then he let her go and dropped his hand. “Don’t ever attempt to perform a fucking spell on me again.”

His reaction had been a reflex. Who knew what he had been through during the war? A single spell, even if it was just White Magic, was apparently traumatic for him.

“Sorry,” she said. “May I cast a diagnostics spell?”

“No.”

“I just want to see—”

“I said no.” His voice was firm and rang with danger. “Do your little research project. I am fine.”

He walked into his usual corner and sat in his chair. No gin and tonic for him tonight. Instead, he took big swigs of whiskey straight from the bottle. It was the brand he loved, the one he drank at the catacombs. The amount he consumed in her presence would land her in the infirmary with alcohol poisoning.

It was difficult to focus on her work when the pain on his face was so obvious and there was no way to help him.

Around three in the morning she was finally done preparing her first test tube. When she looked up in excitement, Dawson stood in the corner, his back turned to her as he pulled something out of his pocket. He brought the green vial to his lips and downed it in full. Narcotics. It wasn’t a fun party drug for him after all. He was in agony. Was it a chronic condition? He placed his hands on the counter in front of him and let his head hang. His back rose and fell with deep breaths.

She knew so many healing spells—in fact, she had invented several during the war while working at the clinic. Perhaps she could help him? If he let her.

“Stop fucking staring at me, Winters.” He didn’t turn around, and his voice remained remarkably steady for someone in pain, on high-level narcotics, and drunk.

She focused back on her potion, testing it on a blood sample from Buckley’s body. So far, she hadn’t gotten the mixture quite right, despite all the help from Obryn.

When she looked up again, Dawson was gone. Perhaps he was getting something else to help with the pain? After an hour, she went to the bathroom but stopped in the hallway when she heard a noise. She walked toward the steady drumming followed by the rattling of chains and peeked through a door that stood partway open.