"I would know it in any world, any life, any form, anywhere in time and space. I would die for these lavender eyes to glitter with warmth - anytime, anywhere."
His words constrict around my heart like golden barbs. The beauty of them excruciating.
...
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London's lights twinkle like scattered, broken stars as I sip on water. Water, for a change, because I'm drinking way too much. And although that won't cause me any permanent physiological harm, I don't want to feel tied down or attached to a habit of luxury.
Besides, I needed the water when I literally shot awake from a parched throat.
Although I haven't gone to check on Elle, yet, I have my ears and nose trained on her. It's about two in the morning, and this is when her nightmares usually kick in with full force.
Despite the past week of therapy. She's trying, and I don't doubt her determination one bit, despite her own wounds and unimaginable agony, but these nightmares don't seem to be able to let her fucking go.
It's been three bloody weeks and they haven't given her a single night of respite. A single night of uninterrupted sleep.
Her smell changes just as soon as her heart accelerates. Her breath hitches once, twice, before becoming shallow, erratic - just like her heart. I can smell the terror tainting her usual soft smell and I finish the rest of the water in one go before keeping the empty glass on the counter and covering the distance to her room in probably all of one second.
I silently open the door and knock on it, just for the sake of it, before moving to stand at her bedside.
Her muscles are all tensed tight and her teeth are sinking into her bottom lip, on the verge of drawing blood. Her eyes are shut tight, and a sheen of sweat covers every visible inch of flawless porcelain skin. Some of her hair that has escaped from her braid sticks to her forehead - silver glinting with moisture under the faint white light of the nightlamp.
But I can already tell that this isn't one of her regular nightmares. It doesn't involve any of the muttering or whimpers. It's a vicious, unrelenting silence that grips her in its throes and refuses to let her escape. Or maybe it's she who refuses to escape.
The realisation sinks its nasty claws into me and my beast fights against every shackle and every wall to break free, tear down her walls in this one moment and see right into the core of her silence.
Because this nightmare is the reason behind her silence.
So, like the selfish moron I am, I don't wake her up. I don't call or shake her awake. Instead, I train every single sense on her and watch as her whole body convulses. As she claws against the sheets, trying to crawl away from the ruthless danger that pins her in place and doesn't let her move away even in her dreams.
My fists clench and my beast growls and thrashes. It's like reality slapping me across the face all over again.
I did know what had been done to her in that damned house - that's the reason my men are keeping three esteemed guests alive in our dungeons till I can return to Westborne and deal with them with my own two hands.
