"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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The smell of petrol clings to my nostrils. It isn't smoke yet, or flame. Just the sharp smell of abundance of fuel mixing with the metallic smell of blood in the air. Dead witches and destroyed bookshelves lying around in an odd synchrony amidst the silence that follows chaos.
A silence that only rings in my head.
Because I can't see anything beyond my mate's closed eyes, pallid face. Not a hint of colour on her pale skin that keeps growing colder by the moment. Nothing except splatters of crimson.
The deafening silence multiplies and threatens to choke me along with the smell of smoke. The smoke that rises all around me. Flames that threaten to startle me into blindness.
And voices.
My father's, my mother's. Reaching out-
No, not reaching out. Asking me, yelling at me, to stay away. To turn around, run, keep Elle safe.
My eyes are just as helpless as dad's as they look at mum, drained and powerless and every last shred of his near-invincible strength failing him under the shackles of magic, and then he reaches out to her just before the flames can touch her skin.
He pulls her to his chest, his arms around her as if that can protect her - her unresponsive form - from the zealous flames.
So much like my arms around Elle, but there are no flames around me.
We both take a deep inhale of our mates' scents, and there it is - nothing. That missing note of vibrant life. That lively, warm undertone gone cold, and in that moment I am dad in the roar that burst forth from both our chests.
Flames suffocate dad as I call out for him - in vain, because he does not so much as look my way.
I feel his anguish reverberating in my hollow chest. I cannot look up either. Do nothing but hold her. Wish it were flames and not idle fuel around us.
Not a breath from her.
The way she wanted it, the way she chased freedom by trying to slit her own throat.
That blood soaks me now. Her delicate, beautiful throat, bloody.
Not a breath-
I shoot awake and upright, my own breathing hitched and still from pure panic. Sweat covers my skin even in this winter chill.
My eyes immediately find the open window - there's snow outside, I can even smell the crisp, frigid winter air in my room. Next thing I know, it will start freezing my house from within. The blanket is bunched around me and absolutely nowhere on my body, and my bare torso burning up. The pyjama a liability.
