Page 57

For years, I told myself I’m fine without my magic. Fine without my dad. But I’m not. I’ve never felt more alone. The stars should be screaming at me, yelping at me, telling me what to do.

They’re still silent.

My dad is gone.

He’s never coming back, and he took so much of me with him. All the best parts of me. All my magic. My creativity. My life.

“Please,” I whimper, looking up at the sky. Stars dance in my vision, and I’m sweating, my dress sticking to the rolls on my sides and back. “Do something. Anything.”

I don’t know how much time has passed before Sterling is at my side. Maybe five minutes. Maybe five hours—though the festival is still happening, so that’s unlikely. The others are far away, focusing on the ritual, but he’s here, hiding with me in the shadows.

“Aurora?”

I shake my head. Words won’t come. I’m in a black hole, always have been, destroying everything. Myself. My magic. This event.

Sterling.

“Can’t—”

“You’re having a panic attack,” he says factually. “You’re okay. This happens to me all the time, and I’m right here.”

Is that what this is?

Shit.

I nod, tears streaming down my cheeks, breath coming more and more rapidly. Somehow, his telling me I’m panicking only makes me panic more. There isn’t enough air, even though we’re outside, and the stars still won’t say anything. My heart runs away, leaving me alone just like everyone else.

I gasp for air. “Can’t stop. Gods, my tits are sweating.”

“That’s okay.” Even though I’m talking nonsense, Sterling doesn’t seem to mind. He holds my shoulders, looking me in the eye. “Don’t force anything.”

It only lasts a moment before I’m rigid again, shrugging off his touch. Panic comes and goes in waves.

“Can you look at me?”

I whimper and nod.

“What do you see when you look at me?” he asks, smiling a crooked smile despite the concern wrinkling his brow. “Can you name it? How do I look tonight?”

“Glasses.” That’s easy. His dark glasses stand out against his moonlit complexion.

“Good. What else?”

“Um… sweater.”

“Mhm. Give me three more things.”

“Forearms.” My whimper is somewhere between frustrated and terrified. “Gods, your forearms are so hot. Aphrodite would probably want me to write a poem about them.”

At least I can finally string a few words together, but they’re ridiculous. I’m ridiculous.

He chuckles. “Stay focused. Two more things.”

I inhale deeply. Exhale long. “Eyes like the morning sky.”

“One more.”

“Hair…”