by Sarah Noffke
“Goodnight, Roya,” he whispers against my skin.
Goodnight, I think, too tired to actually say anything.
Chapter Forty-Two
“Stop resisting.” His cool voice slips through my mind like music.
My eyes open to find his, too close. He’s leaning over me, arms pinning me to the cold stone.
“I don’t love you,” I whisper.
Chase clucks three times, shaking his head. “That’s not what I want to hear.” He slides one hand behind my lower back, drawing me nearer to him. Our hips are closely pressed together now. “Let’s try this again,” he says into my ear, his free hand flat up against the wall by my face, trapping me. “Roya, how do you feel about me?”
The word hate flashes through my mind. Echoes. But I don’t say it. Instead I repeat myself. “I don’t love you.”
With unnatural quickness Chase grips my chin between his icy fingers, pinching my skin. “If you don’t love me,” he hisses through clenched teeth, “then how about I kill everyone you do love. How does that sound?”
Fumbling for space I shove my hand into his chest, forcing him back, gaining precious inches. “This isn’t real,” I say with conviction.
“You’re right. And it’s unfortunate because if it was I’d do something incredibly satisfying to you right now.” Chase steps forward again, tipping my chin up so I meet his crystal blue eyes. I’m stone once more. Frightened by his allure, by my own draw to him. “Soon though.” Leaning down he hovers his lips an inch away from my jaw, a selfish wanting pulsing from his too cold breath. I shiver. “And although this isn’t real, my message is.” His teeth crush down on my earlobe. It hurts and then it doesn’t—at all. Again he grips my chin, rocking me back so I’m staring straight into his soulless eyes. “If you keep resisting me then I’ll kill everyone you love. Is that clear?”
I don’t answer.
Chase leans down, whispering right against my mouth, his lips colder than his fingertips. “And I’m going to start by killing the one you love most. I’ll enjoy watching him slit his own throat. Dying the same way your mother did.”
A scream tears through my dry throat. Violent shivers rake my body. Teeth chattering, I clutch my shaking arms. Shudders palpitate my chest. And although my consciousness knows where my body lies, I keep my eyelids tightly pressed together, willing my breath to slow before I meet my reality.
Warmth so real it almost makes me cry wraps around my arm in the form of a strong hand. “It’s all right,” George whispers.
He’s crouched down next to my bed, the soft night lighting of the infirmary illuminating only his figure, not his features. I’m curled into a tight ball, hands cradling my shivering arms. George turns to leave, but I swiftly clap my hand over his. “Don’t go,” I say in a quick hush.
“I’m only getting your blankets,” he says, carefully kneeling down to retrieve the crumpled mess on the ground. I push myself into a seated position, willing my eyes to adjust to the darkness. “Here,” George says, draping the blankets over my lap and wrapping another one around my shoulders. “You’re trembling.”
“I know,” I say, wishing my teeth would stop chattering so aggressively. “I’ve never felt so cold.”
George places a hand on each of my arms and rubs gently, urging my thickened blood to circulate again.
“Thanks,” I say, looking up at his devoted eyes
“It was only a dream,” George says, pushing my hair back from my face.
I shake my head forcibly. “No, it wasn’t.”
“Of course it was, Roya. It just feels real.”
“Before I came to the Institute, the Lucidites sent me messages through my dreams. Told me things. Prepared me,” I say, recalling those vivid dreams like I had them yesterday. “This dream feels the same way as those.”
“It’s Chase, isn’t it?” George asks, a strict protectiveness in his tone.
I nod, staring off into the dark infirmary.
“He can’t hurt you though. He might be trying to scare you, but he can’t hurt you,” George whispers, gently caressing the top of my still frozen hand.
“He can though. Chase knows exactly how he can hurt me most,” I say, my voice sounding haunted. How does he know how my mother was killed? Maybe he’s lying. Maybe I’m imaging the whole thing. Maybe I’m losing my mind.
George folds me into his arms. They’re so warm, they instantly melt away the block of ice around my core. I bury my face into his shoulder, breathing slowly though his shirt. Something stirs in my peripheral and I raise my head only an inch. Aiden stares back at me, a quiet wariness on his face.
Easing back a few inches I turn my attention to George. “Thanks.”
“You need to tell Trey about these dreams,” he says emphatically.
“What dreams?” Aiden asks, fumbling for his glasses on the bedside table.
“Roya, if Chase is trying to threaten you—”
“Don’t worry, George, I’m not going to give in to him. And I also won’t be threatened. I can still think in my own brain at least. I just have to take back control.”
He nods, chewing on his lip. “Aiden,” George says, not taking his eyes off me, “can Chase invade people’s dreams?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, a dark memory briefly surfacing on his face. “It’s called dream invasion. He’s a master at it. Taught me a thing or two.”
“And is there any way to stop him?” I ask, grateful that it’s dark and hopeful Aiden can’t see my hand pressed between George’s.
“Is he in your dreams?”
I nod.
“But it could just be your subconscious,” George says.
“It’s not. I know the difference,” I say, slipping my hand from his and gripping the blanket around my shoulders, making it tighter.
“I’d go with your instinct on this,” Aiden says in his clinical voice. “If Chase is in your dreams then you could try shielding. It works the same on emotions, thoughts, and dreams. It’s harder during dreaming because you have to remain completely lucid the entire time, but it can be done. Honestly, your best defense is dream traveling.”
“Yeah, well, besides from the fact that I need to be supervised to do that, I also don’t think the painkillers I’m on will allow it. They’re too disorienting for me to focus.”
“I know what you mean,” Aiden says.
“I’m not taking them anymore,” I suddenly decide. “I’d rather have coherent thoughts and be in pain, rather than the reverse.”
“If I didn’t know any better then I’d swear your gift was telepathy and you were just in my head,” Aiden says. I lift my gaze up from my bed and our eyes collide. Not the way he looks, but specifically the way he looks at me threatens my inhibitions. It’s all greedy yearning. The blankets fall from my grasp. I’m suddenly roasting.
“Since we both can’t dream travel and you’re probably in no mood to attempt another dream right now, can I make a recommendation?” Aiden says, suppressing the heat in my chest with his casual tone.
“Sure.”
“Episode two?” he says, picking up the remote.
I turn to appraise George. He shrugs, looking slightly defeated and definitely exhausted. “You look like you could use some rest,” I say. “I don’t want the show to keep you up.”
George squeezes my shoulder before returning to his bed. “Oh, don’t worry about me. Sci-fi actually puts me to sleep.”
Aiden huffs. “Mr. Anders, you scorn me with your insults. You don’t hear me criticizing…” He pauses, tilts his head. “What sort of things are you into?”
“Classic literature.”
Aiden arches an eyebrow. “Well, I’d never say something like reading classic literature is a flamboyant interest and best reserved for those still developing their masculinity.”
“Are we going to watch the movie or what?” I say, leaning forward to block George from Aiden’s direct field of vision.
“As you wish, my dear,” Aiden says, tur
ning on the television.
“Good night, George,” I say. “Thanks for everything.”
“Anytime, Roya,” he says, rolling over in his bed, back toward me.
“Might I suggest,” Aiden says, wheeling the television directly in front of my bed, “we’ll be able to see better if we’re both in front of the television.”
“How are we going to do that?” I say, straightening my blankets.
“Scoot over,” he says, all brazen, the heated look returning to his eyes.
“There’s not much room,” I say, flushing red.
“Oh, I saw you and Joseph sharing the bed and since my diet at the Grotte I think I’ll fit.”
An overly dramatic sigh, reeking of pretense, falls out of my mouth.
“Don’t worry, I promise to give you plenty of space,” he says, resting his hand an inch from mine on the bed.
Chapter Forty-Three
Warmth so perfect, like filtered sunlight, covers me. His heartbeat under my ear gently wakes me from sleep unspoiled by dreams. Lifting my chin I look directly into Aiden’s eyes. Although the infirmary is still dark, I see the smile in them.
“You’re awake,” he whispers, wrapping his arms tighter around me.
“How did we end up this way?”
“These kinds of things just happen.”
I twist around too fast. George is still asleep, back facing us.
“He hasn’t stirred,” Aiden says, pulling the covers up higher on my shoulder.
“Didn’t you sleep?”
“No, but this is more peaceful anyway.”
I slide my arm around him, feeling the bones too easily through his shirt. Still our bodies lie against each other’s seamlessly.
“It’s torture being stationed so close to you every day and having to hide my affection,” he whispers into my hair.
“Torture? Are you sure that’s the right word?”
He smiles against my head. “Well, maybe not,” he says. “It’s still causing me a great deal of stress though.”
It’s hard to accept that he’s here. Beside me. I half expect to wake up from this dream to find myself alone in bed. Silence fills the air, save for his gentle breathing and steady heartbeat. Those two sounds unearth the fear I’d buried since Aiden was abducted.
“I thought you were dead,” I whisper against his chest. “I thought I’d never see you again.”
“The dream was supposed to reassure you.”
“The dream?” I ask, instantly confused.
“You had one of me, right? Where I told you if you could feel me that—”
“That was you?” I ask, dumbfounded.
“Dream invasion,” he whispers, a smile in his voice.
I lift my chin again to stare at him. In the darkened room the bruises on his face appear harsher. A new heaviness invades my heart when I think about fists hurting him. The Voyageurs torturing him. My fingers trace along one of the bruises marking his face. “I’m sorry they did this to you.”
His mask falls away. A pain as ingrained as DNA surfaces. It makes him look stronger than I remember. “Are you ever going to tell me what they did to you?” I ask.
No answer. Just a wounded smile.
“Well, you can if you ever want to.”
“I don’t dwell in the past,” he says, rubbing his face into my hand. “It’s behind me now.”
“Did you think you were going to die?”
“No,” he murmurs. “Somehow I knew you were coming.”
“I didn’t want to at first,” I admit, tucking my head back down under his chin. “I didn’t want to be the one responsible for you because what if I failed?”
“I’m glad you came around, because after a week in the Grotte there was no one’s face I needed to see more,” he says, squeezing me into him, then stops, going suddenly rigid. “I’m sorry, I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
“Not at all.” I suppress a giggle and slide my leg along his. “You can even hold me tighter if you want to.”
His chest rocks with a silent laugh. “I don’t think you should push it, Ms. Stark.”
“I know what I can handle,” I say, slipping my hand under his shirt, sliding it up his torso. Suddenly remembering the multiple cuts and burns I’d seen on his chest in the Grotte, I halt. “Wait, I’m not hurting you now, am I?” Our injuries make us both seem fragile in each other’s arms, but also perfectly paired.
“No,” he growls low in my ear. “Just the opposite.”
I dip down lower, tracing S’s along his side. His skin seems to hum under my fingertips.
“If you keep that up, I’m not going to be able to remove myself from this bed.”
“I’m not sure I see the problem there.” I slip my hand from under his shirt, wiggling upward so my face is against his neck. The bed creaks from my movement. I should be worried about waking George, but I’m not. Right now all I want is this. It’s so clear to me suddenly. Aiden stole my heart when he first saved me, and I’m never whole without him. Not like I am right now.
Enticing him to turn his head and kiss me, I slide my nose along the space between his jaw and his neck. He shudders but doesn’t turn.
“You’re going to get me in so much trouble.” The sternness in his voice surprises me.
“Me?” I say, teasingly outraged. “You’re the one in my bed.”
“And believe me when I say I don’t want to leave it. But Mae is going to be here soon. It’s almost morning.”
“Don’t go,” I say, cinching on to him with a new tenacity.
“I can’t have Mae seeing us like this,” he says in a firm whisper.
“I’ll tell her you’re making me feel better.”
“Roya,” he pleads, prying my hand off of him. “You know I can’t. We can’t.”
His fragmented sentence is completed in my breaking heart: We can’t really be together. That’s what he means to say, but doesn’t have the guts to. Like the assistant in a magician’s act, I’m cut in half. He may be tortured, but I’m broken.
He retracts his arms out from around me, making me instantly cooler.
“Why?” I ask as he stands up.
“You know why.” He puts back on his glasses.
“No, why are you crawling into my bed at night and abandoning me in the morning? It’s…frustrating.”
His response is a guilty shrug.
“Get some more rest, Roya. I’ll be right here.”
Chapter Forty-Four
“I’d hoped you hadn’t run off and gotten yourself killed yet,” Patrick says, his face shining brightly.
He dumps a huge box on my bed, looking unsympathetic about almost crushing my leg with it.
“I’m not going to be able run at all if you break one of my limbs,” I say, eyeing the box.
“We both know I wouldn’t hurt you,” he says as he steers his hand truck back to the exit. “And don’t have such little faith in my unloading abilities. I’m not too bashful to say I’m the best courier out there.”
“I’d never argue that point.”
Patrick’s mustache twitches with a smile. “Until we meet again, Roya,” he says with a slight bow.
“What about me, Patrick?” Aiden says from his bed, shutting his laptop.
“What about you?”
“Although you don’t have a package for me, aren’t you at least going to say hi?”
“Hi,” he says indifferently.
“That’s the greeting I get after getting abducted?”
“Were you? Oh, that’s right,” Patrick says looking amused before turning around and leaving.
“Some people.” He sighs before flipping back open his laptop.
I haven’t graced Aiden with a single look all morning. Actually, I’m proud to say I’ve gone out of my way to stare at random objects when addressing him. I can tell it’s starting to grate on him, but since he likes pretending so much he can pretend it doesn’t bother him.
Of course the package is from Bob and Steve.
I don’t know anyone else outside the Institute. Not really. Deranged psychopaths don’t count.
My greedy fingers sling the tape off the top of the box before digging into it. A card sits on the first layer of tissue paper. Inside it I recognize Steve’s handwriting.
Dear Roya,
Words hardly express how grateful we feel that you’re returned from the Grotte safely. However, Trey has informed us that your injury is still pretty severe. Since you’ll be laid up for a while we decided to make sure you have the proper supplies. Enjoy!
Love,
Bob & Steve
I set the note on my bedside table and pull out my presents. George and Aiden are now eagerly watching from their beds. There’s a multitude of snacks, everything from Moose Munch to dried banana chips. I throw a bag of jelly beans at George and keep digging. Next I unearth a book of vintage world maps. The book is large and heavy and the maps are all in pristine condition with vibrant colors. Lastly, I pull out an iPad.
“Who’s the secret admirer?” Aiden asks.
“Admirers,” I correct him, turning on the iPad.
“That’s so your style.” He laughs.
“Ha-ha,” I say without enthusiasm. “It’s from my pseudo parents, Bob and Steve. They kind of adopted me after I learned my entire life was a lie. Don’t you already know all this stuff though? Doesn’t it show up when you secretly record and track my energy levels?”
“Glad to know you’re feeling better,” he says, sitting on the far edge of my bed, fingering the snacks with curiosity. I snatch a bag of gummy bears from his grasp without a look, putting it on my bedside table. “Your sassy attitude seems to have recovered anyway,” he says, leaning forward.
I ignore him as I focus on the screen loading in front of my face.
“You ever call them Steve and Bob, or does Bob’s name always come first?” he asks, grabbing the book of maps and thumbing through it.