I should register the huge sigh of relief that he lets out, but everything in me is focused on the scar down his face – vibrant with fresh blood that pools and runs along its length and onto his neck. The chest of his dark shirt looks equally wet – but I’m hoping that’s just sweat.
It’s probably not – likely more blood from the scar that cuts through his chest.
Why the chuck are his scars ripped open and bleeding?
I gasp and grab him by the shoulder.
His hand is around my neck, and I’m being flung over the couch, over him, and down onto the floor before his eyes are even open. He pins me down, practically sitting on my chest, cutting off my air and any chance I had of talking. But just to be sure, he presses his hand hard down on my neck.
I grab at his fingers, trying to pry them off, but he grips my wrist and slams it to the floor.
The stiff leather splint creaks, then something cracks and pain shoots up my arm. His weight is so heavy I’m waiting for more bones to break, and ice cold wisps of shadow magic are rising from his fingers.
Black seeps into the world, narrowing everything to just Killian. Just the man easily twice my size, carved from stone, with blood running down the scar on his face and his eyes still closed.
Finally, he lifts his eyelids.
His brow pulls into angry lines, and the freshly-opened scar across his face is vibrant against the fear that fills his eyes. He shifts his weight, pulling his hand from my neck and letting the air in. I heave and choke, then cough, too out of control to find words.
“Shadow,” he growls.
His eyes are black, pure black, with no-whites-left black. His expression contorts in barely controlled anger – or rage. After the briefest moment of realizing that it’s me he has under his grip, he tosses me over his shoulder and storms up the stairs. I still can’t freaking breathe, barely drawing in gasps before his shoulder forces it back out of me again.
“Never go near me when I’m sleeping.” He grates the words out, “Never.”
As soon as he’s in the room, he tosses me down, and I land with a hard thud on the floor. Gasping and pressing my eyes shut tight against the seams of pain that threaten to rip me apart, I don’t even notice him leave.
But I do sense the stillness in the room and hear his darkness resume as he tries to sleep downstairs. His pain mildly overtakes mine and actually gives me enough strength to try to wriggle my fingers – which hurts too chuckin’ much.
It’s not pain – it’s agony so bad that I can’t even groan.
The croak of the frog ticks by unhindered, and finally, I open my eyes again. The lantern has burned out, so I have no idea how long I’ve been lying here.
Downstairs, Killian grunts, then howls, his pain shredding through me again and again. Hurting me more than whatever is going on with my arm or the lingering bruises on my neck. Even if I wanted to go back to bed right now, I couldn’t. Killian has reset my arm enough times for me to recognize that that’s exactly what I need.
“Seth,” I whisper, pressing my eyes shut and digging through my soul. Come on, Allure, where are you? I order Seth to take me downstairs.
The fresh throb through my head barely registers against all of the parts of me pulled tight to the point of almost shredding.
It takes me a moment to realize that Seth’s picked me up and begun to carry me downstairs. It does occur to me, though, that all of this is just going to get me into more trouble. Seth’s going to be pissed. Pax is going to be really pissed. Killian is already pissed – and now I’m going to try and wake the guy up again, then beg him to straighten my arm.
Or I could just get Seth to take me up to Roarke and beg Roarke to take the pain away until morning.
Killian growls, the sound cut off suddenly as we step into his radius – where Seth promptly sets me down and pads back up the stairs.
I stagger, the world spinning in an agony-induced mess as I grip the banister and wait to see if I’m going to throw up. Above me, Seth has collapsed into a snoring heap just inside the bedroom door – I can still see his feet.
I edge into the sitting room, going as wide around the couch and Killian as I can.
He’s still. Peaceful.
The noises born from nightmares are gone. I lean against the side of one of the single seats, trying to judge how I can wake him without getting something else broken.
Between my head throbbing and the stabbing pain radiating from my arm, there’s not a lot of room left for a clear thought. Or a lot of strength.
My knees buckle, and I sink to the ground, crumpling against the chair. A chair which would have been quite comfortable to sit in, but I don’t even have the energy to get back up. I hug my right arm against my chest. Each of my breaths is a struggled, gasping effort.
Killian rolls over on the couch, letting out a soft, gentle noise. The kind a dog makes when he gets comfortable and ready to relax. The kind the dog on the estate, Chomp, made when he had a full stomach.
He’s facing me, but his eyes are closed, and the scar on his face has stopped bleeding. More than stopped bleeding. As I watch, the redness settles, and the angry intensity that was drawn into every line of his face smooths.
His big eyelids settle, and the man finds the kind of sleep he should have been having. The guy’s like a giant protector for
