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Sindri snickers, pushes off the wall. “Leaving you, then. You know where to find me if you need me.”
I sit down on the bed beside Jason. He’s breathing evenly. Maybe he’s asleep. “So you were there,” I whisper, “back then, when they hurt Jason?”
“How do you figure that?” Ashton says.
“If your face triggers him…”
“My face.” He drags a hand over it and moves away from the bed, going to stand by the desk, moving stacks of papers aside to perch on the edge. He chuckles darkly.
“What is it?”
“I was there, Mia. Of course I was. My father made me… Made me watch, made me hurt others, but…”
“But what? Did you hurt Jason?”
He shakes his head. “No, not him. I don’t recall hurting him. I… I don’t think it’s my face that triggers him.”
“But—”
“It’s my father’s,” he says quietly.
I stare at him. “You look alike, you and your father?”
“Yeah.”
“And when you say you don’t recall hurting him…?”
He looks away. “I don’t remember some things.”
“That’s easy to say.”
“Believe me, it isn’t. My memory has… gaps.” He heaves a frustrated sigh. “Sometimes in my dreams, I think I remember things I did. But I don’t know if they’re real or not.”
“Why wouldn’t you remember?”
“Because I did terrible things, Mia. Any heir to the House of Water has to prove himself, prove to be a monster, and I’m not sure, but I think I tried my best and still failed.”
I’m speechless. “What have you done, Ash?” Melissa’s words keep returning to haunt me. “Have you tortured people?”
He doesn’t reply and my blood runs cold.
Then he goes to the door, opens it. “Take care of him. You know where to find me. I won’t impose my presence any longer.”
“Ash!”
But he’s already gone, the door closing. I’m on my feet, intent on going after him—how did this conversation go downhill so fast?Honest!—but Jason stirs and moans, and I stop in my tracks.
I can’t leave him alone, not now that he’s waking up. Who knows if he’s still caught in a flashback, if he’s not okay.
Damn. I sink back down on the bed, my heart racing as if I’ve run for miles, and take Jason’s hand in mine, wipe at a smudge of dirt on his cheekbone. “I’m here,” I whisper, “right here. Don’t be afraid.”
He shifts his legs, arches his neck, gasps words I don’t catch.
“Jax.” I tug on his hand, not sure how to wake him up—but it’s not really a dream, is it? It’s memories, the bad kind.
And his eyes are open now, wide open, like the eyes of a terrified animal, already turning wolf-like and amber. His ears are going wolf-like, too, poking through his blond hair, pointed and tufted.
“No, Jax, don’t shift.” I gaze down at him, his handsome face twisted with what looks like pain, his lips parting to show long canines. He’s so beautiful, and this is terrifying, because I can sense his magic spread, his elemental magic—earth, growth, life.
